


Red Matter

by Geelady



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geelady/pseuds/Geelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possession is nine-tenths of the law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Matter

**Author's Note:**

> Author: G. Waldo  
> Rating: Adult. Angst. Violence. Rape. A slightly non-canon time-line as this story is set post the death of Tim Carter, the supposed ”Red John”, but no specific time thereafter. Lisbon and the team also believe that Jane might be correct; that Tim Carter was probably not Red John.  
> Characters: Jane/Lisbon friendship, Jane/Cho (eventually) with possibly NC-17 later on.  
> Summary: Possession is ninth-tenths of the law.  
> Disclaimer: Not mine though I wish he was.  
> Words: This will be a longish fic’. Those among you familiar with me know that means 20,000 words-plus. I have tried to stick to canon (other than the eventual Jane/Cho) as much as possible, but since I’ve not seen a good 1/3 of the episodes (I discovered the Mentalist only this last year or so and now it tops my list) thus far, there will probably be mistakes. If so, my bad!

Red Matter

Author: G. Waldo  
Rating: Adult. Angst. Violence. Rape. A slightly non-canon time-line as this story is set post the death of Tim Carter, the supposed ”Red John”, but no specific time thereafter. Lisbon and the team also believe that Jane might be correct; that Tim Carter was probably not Red John.  
Characters: Jane/Lisbon friendship, Jane/Cho (eventually) with possibly NC-17 later on.  
Summary: Possession is ninth-tenths of the law.  
Disclaimer: Not mine though I wish he was.  
Words: This will be a longish fic’. Those among you familiar with me know that means 20,000 words-plus. I have tried to stick to canon (other than the eventual Jane/Cho) as much as possible, but since I’ve not seen a good 1/3 of the episodes (I discovered the Mentalist only this last year or so and now it tops my list) thus far, there will probably be mistakes. If so, my bad!  
Fave’ sows: The Mentalist, Dexter, The Killing, Fringe, Prime suspect, Person of Interest, Grimm, Criminal Minds, Revenge, and last (and pretty much least), House MD.

Blue is the male principle, stern and spiritual. Yellow the female principle, gentle, cheerful and sensual. Red is matter, brutal and heavy and always the colour which must be fought and vanquished by the other two.  
Franz Marc

C--------------B--------------I

“I should have been convicted.”

Lisbon snapped her head up. Long brown bangs fell a little across her forehead and she brushed them aside. “What?” Paperwork forgotten for a moment, she gave Jane, CBI’s quirky consultant, her full attention. Jane was not a man you ignored for long. Not when he wandered into your office during one quiet lunch break in what had turned out to be crime-wise a fairly dull week. “What did you say?”

Jane set down on her visitor chair’s arm what Lisbon suspected was his fourth cup of tea of the day. “I should have been convicted of killing Tim Carter.” He clarified.

The statements that came out of Jane’s mouth never ceased to disconcert her and for a moment she stared back speculatively, a twinge of guilt in her that the same thought had also crossed her mind more than once. Lisbon was pretty well unflappable when it came to Jane’s left-field comments, but the events surrounding this one poked at her private morals a little. On the surface Jane sounded bothered about having shot that man, but she was convinced he was not. Not really. Not as disturbed as any sane person with an average moral standing ought to be.  
But beggars can’t be choosers and Patrick Jane, brilliant ex-con-man extraordinaire whose deductive reasoning still impressed – and annoyed – the hell out of her, was too valuable a component of her team to begrudge him one little murder – especially over a man that needed to be brought to justice; a potential if not in-fact killer. “You didn’t know Carter wasn’t Red John, and the jury found you not guilty.” She stated the obvious. Good enough for me.

Jane waved his teacup around, and Lisbon noted it. Lecture-mode – engage!

“Oh, I was found not guilty in the eyes of public opinion for certain,” he elaborated “the public having been very well represented in that jury, never-the-less I did shoot him. I am guilty of murdering a man in cold blood, in public, and yet here I sit – free as the proverbial bird.”

Was Jane really not bothered by the killing? He appeared instead to be more bothered by the why’s and wherefore’s of his not-guilty verdict. Jane always wanted to know the reasons behind effects beyond the mere facts, which is what made him a relentless investigator. Jane was an expert on people – he got human beings and all the weird dark passages concealed in their psyches, in particular those hidden motivations that could be exploited.

Lisbon had on more than one occasion seen Jane pick out a killer among a group of people after having spoken to them as a group for only minutes and been proved correct in his choice. She had, CBI had, its very own Sherlock or Poirot, and in an investigation Jane rarely stumbled. It was a bit disconcerting.

All that and innocent looking blonde curls topped with a casual charm that fooled most people through and through. Lisbon shook her head to clear it a little. Patrick Jane drove her nuts. “What are you trying to say?”

Jane did it again, threw her that look that said “Nothing, boss – just hangin’”. Jane shrugged. “I was just wondering why.”

Bullshit. Lisbon frowned at him, suspicion flooding her irises an even darker brown than normal. Carter was a criminal. The world was best rid of him. “Has something happened? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, of course not.” He stood up to leave.

Lying brat. “Jane – “

But Jane was already half-way out the door. He paused to inhale deeply, as though the office had suddenly been infused with fresh, spring air. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

C---------------------B----------------------I

Jane perched on the edge of a concrete bench nearby to a fountain. It was a crisp November day but by no means cold. In southern California, summer never really ended. He re-read the letter that had arrived at his home the day before. Plain envelope. No return address. Everything typed including the two pages of unlined paper inside. Red ink through-out.

Red John had resorted to sending him a letter and it left Jane feeling uneasy. Red John didn’t write letters. A note occasionally, usually at the crime scene of someone he had brutally murdered. But mostly Red John left clues in dead people. Murders were his way of communicating. Who was Red John? Jane had an idea. Not who he was, but who he was.

After Jane had publically profiled and claimed he would catch Red John using his mental powers, denouncing Red John on television, the provoked killer’s wrath had then been directed toward Jane and his family. By publically playing the psychic con-game Jane had inadvertently arbitrated the murder of own wife and daughter; a thing he would never forgive himself for.

Killing Red John would go a long way in easing that burden.

“Dear Patrick” the letter read. “As you know, you killed the wrong man. Carter was a weak-minded fool. Amazing what some people will do to cover gambling debts. Anyway, he is dead and I’m still here, still watching you. Our dearly departed was just one pair of eyes in my arsenal. Carter was easily replaced.”

Of course Red John was wealthy. He had to be in order to pay on a regular basis all these watching eyes at his command. Wealthy and charismatic; manipulative; charming when required; convincing; highly intelligent, all the things Jane already knew about Red John, but nothing that really helped Jane find him. Jane had conned many a wealthy person in his tenure as psychic, thousands of clients over the years in fact, many of them men that had come to him in secret. Hundreds of them, most too embarrassed to let their wives or girlfriends know they were consulting a psychic. Was Red John a former client?

 

“What will you do, Patrick? This is a fun game we are playing and you know I will win. I feel I’ve come to know you over the years, and you’re much cleverer than I first thought. We’re two of a kind, though perhaps not altogether two of a mind.”

A cheap shot suggesting they were somehow alike. A stupid attempt at hurting him, and a little surprising.

“Let’s face it, Patrick, I know you. Where you live and work, what you wear and the kinds of foods you like – and how lonely your life has become. I somehow feel partly responsible for it and wish to make it up to you.”

Jane had already suspected Red John knew much of this and more. Some of it was probably true but Red John would never have allowed himself to get close enough to a victim to learn all the details of his or her life. That’s how killers get caught. Much of this was nothing but blind bluster. Some of it, though, was not.

“...and I like all your new coworkers. They care about you, Patrick, but I do not believe they really know you. Do they realize you’re a lying cheat who’ll never reveal his true self? Do they know it doesn’t bother you that you committed murder? Do they know you traded your families’ safety for a few bucks? Do they know in that respect you’re not much different than me? How much do you care for them? Remember not to care too much. That’s how you always get hurt, by caring too much.”

Then again, Red John had walked the halls of CBI’s offices at least once. Perhaps not so much bluster as he would like to believe.

And it did bother Jane that he had killed the wrong man, but it did not bother him that in the end it turned out the man needing killing anyway. He would prefer to not have been the person who pulled the trigger, but if there was one thing Jane had come to understand over the years since his families’ murder and his own culpability in it – the past cannot be changed. Being a killer of a murderer wasn’t so bad a thing. There are some types the world can do very well without.

But he was not like Red John. Jane had not enjoyed killing that man. At the time, or so he had believed, it had simply been necessary, and now it was necessary to destroy Red John, if only Jane knew who he was.

“My dearest Patrick, I leave you with much anticipation of our future encounters. Don’t worry; you’re too much fun to kill right now. Please be assured you can look forward to another year of our fun game. Your comrade in arms – Red John.”

Jane jumped as someone sat down heavily beside him. He quickly folded the pages and shoved them and the envelope in his suit pocket. Nodding to his companion, “Cho.’ He said, careful to keep his voice neutral, as though it was just another pleasant day on the job.

“Jane.” Cho said as neutrally. Kimball Cho, however, was not an unobservant colleague. “That’s the third time you’ve read that letter today.”

Jane clasped his hands together and looked elsewhere. “Is it?”

“Yes.” You could count on Cho to be brief. “Everything okay?”

“No.” Pointless to lie to Cho, he could see through a lie as easily as Jane could size up a good spender. Jane felt Cho’s eyes steadily on him. Cho seemed more than mildly concerned.

“Anything I can help with?”

Jane paused, considering. Cho was a good man to have on your side. They all were. Rigsby and Van Pelt were solid investigators and supportive friends, but he wasn’t about to get any more people killed. “Not yet.” He hadn’t meant to hint to Cho that anything was wrong at all.

But clearly Cho didn’t feeling like pushing it and told him “Lisbon wants us inside; new case.”

Jane nodded, following Cho back to the Lisbon’s office.

Jane asked “Who’s dead?” before he sat down.

“Three.” Lisbon handed out folders to each of them. “At first Oakland PD thought it was a single mugging gone bad, then when murder number two happened – gang killings.”

Cho flipped past the odd photo and read the info’ sheet. “Three dead now?”

Lisbon nodded. “Yes. All killed from blows to the head.” She sat down and crossed her legs, happy to have a case, even if it meant three people had breathed their last.

Van Pelt voiced what they were all thinking. “Why did Oakland PD wait until there were three before calling us?”

Jane raised a finger. “Three’s a charm, and possibly pride.”

Lisbon answered Van Pelt. “The killer leaves a calling card, a tag like a gang might. Not surprisingly the local gangs are denying any involvement.”

Van Pelt raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Yeah, right, like they’d tell the truth.”

Lisbon nodded to the folder in her hand. “Exactly. These could be gang-style murders and if they are then it’s a new gang. Sacramento PD took photos of the areas, the bodies and the painted tag left at each scene.”

Jane was studying the photos and asked. “Since when do gangs use lead pipes to dispose of their enemies?”

“A new gang might.” Lisbon affirmed. “Initiation maybe.”

Jane leaped to the poignant fact immediately. “Possibly but not likely. These crime scenes are more than two hundred miles apart.”

Lisbon said to them. “A little out of the ordinary for a local bunch, yes.”

Jane was scrutinizing one of the photos.”A tiger’s face.”

Cho said. “Looks like whoever did this wasn’t in it for money. Only one of these people was well dressed. Two still had their wallets.”

Rigsby pursed his lips. “They look like blue collar for the most part, except the last guy - white collar maybe. And whoever did it doesn’t mind putting on the miles.”

“Yes.” Jane added, frowning. “Quite a large territory for the new kids on the block.” He was staring at his clasped fingers. He didn’t sound very enthused. Gang-land murders were often sordid and cruel, but were rarely a real mystery.

Lisbon said. “Yes, and it’s up to us to figure out who they are before any more people get hurt.”

 

Lisbon stood. “Cho, you and Rigsby talk to Captain Brenner. Van Pelt, do some research, see if you can figure out which gang this mark belongs to, if it is a gang. Jane and I’ll visit the first site; talk to the locals, and we’ll go from there.”

 

C---------------------B--------------------------I

 

Lisbon pulled into traffic. “Anything bothering you, Jane? You’re not your usual chatterbox self.”

Jane affected hurt. “I’m not a chatterbox.”

Lisbon chuckled a bit. “Yeah, right. Come on, Jane, you hardly said a word this morning. No complaining, no wanting to visit the local cafe before we do any actual work – you’re not yourself.”

“So you’ll be happy if we stop for tea first?” He asked as innocently as you please. “After all, it’s a long drive.”

Lisbon shook her head. “You never confide in me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a private person.”

Lisbon waved a hand. “Of course there isn’t, I’m not trying to snoop but...”

“Sure you are.”

Lisbon blew some air. “Van Pelt talks to me, so does Rigbsy.”

“Does Cho?”

She had to admit it. “No, but – “

“-Bec-a-a-u-se he’s a private person. And Van Pelt only talks to you about something when she’s already made up her mind about it.”

“I know there’s something bothering you. And you’re wrong about Van Pelt.”

“No you don’t, you’re just guessing. And I’m not wrong about Van Pelt.”

Lisbon bit her lip. He was. Goddamn it if he couldn’t sniff her out every time, or at least out-talk her. “Maybe, but I still think I’m right.”

“Of course you do, that’s why you’re such an effective leader.”

Now he was trying to flatter her into minding her own business. “Stop trying to change the subject.” Dropping it momentarily, Lisbon pulled into a gas station coffee shop, parked and killed the engine. Looking at him, “Well? Didn’t you want tea or something?”

Jane stepped out. “If you insist.”

 

Mobile tea in hand, Jane climbed back into the CBI issue four-by-four. Lisbon was sitting in the driver’s seat, still in a stew. The petite brunette looked cute behind the wheel of such a large vehicle. “Sure you don’t want anything?” Jane asked, hoping her previous line of inquiry was forgotten.

“I’ll never get it anyway.”

Jane decided to drastically alter the subject. The crime scene photos kept coming back to mind. “Interesting photos, especially the red gang tag.”

Lisbon slammed her hand down on the steering wheel making Jane jump and spill his tea. “I knew it!” She blurted.

“Hey!” He said, attempting to wipe wet spots off his navy pants. “Less violence please. I’m losing my tea.”

Lisbon was looking across the short two feet between them with something akin to righteous fury on her face. “I knew you’d glom onto the fact the paint used was red – “

“ Well, I only mentioned it because it is.”

“It’s paint, Jane, it’s not blood. This is not about Red John. Red John hasn’t poked his head out in over a year.”

“And “glom”? You think I “glom”??”

Lisbon wasn’t listening. “Every time we have a case that involves the color red in any significant way, you right away jump to conclusions.”

“That’s not true. Two weeks ago at a victim’s apartment you ate a bowl of strawberries and I didn’t mention Red John.”

“Yeah? At Halloween I caught you staring at a jack-o-lantern with that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“You know very well what look. That look that tells me you’re about to do something foolish or dangerous.”

“Well, you have to admit, it was a very scary Jack-o-lantern.”

Lisbon shook her head. “Why do you always make everything so complicated?”

“Things do that all by themselves. It’s not like I have any special power over them. Why are you so upset with me, anyway?”

She turned fire-hot eyes on him. “Do you blame me? I know you’re hiding something or something’s happened that you won’t talk to me about, even as your boss,” She underlined the word heavily. “And I brought you with me today to the crime scene so maybe it’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“I always attend the crime scenes and, by the way, generally a crime scene is a troubling place, Lisbon, perhaps you should rethink your strategy.”

Lisbon calmed down and sighed. “Please, whatever it is, whatever’s going on that you refuse to talk about, don’t go off half cocked after some lame-brain notion-“

“Lame-brain?” Now Jane did sound insulted. “When have my notions ever stooped to half-cocked or lame? I am the anti-lame.”

Lisbon sighed again. She could feel her heart pounding and hear the blood rushing through her head. Jane might be the mentalist but she had come to trust her own instincts when it came to the mentalist himself. Working with Patrick Jane was like working with hot embers hidden beneath innocuous looking ashes. There was just no telling if or when the flame would burst forth and scorch him and anyone who stood too closely.

“You need to calm down, Lisbon; this can’t be good for your blood pressure.”

Lisbon could not help but laugh and though it made her feel better, there was sharp irony in the sound.

 

There was little to see at the first crime scene. Local law enforcement had photographed the area, and the coroner had taken the body away days ago. The gang-tag, though, was still visible on the white brick store back nearby. Jane examined it but it spoke nothing more to him than the photo had. If there hadn’t been a second attack, it would probably have been dismissed as a child’s graffiti.

Van Pelt was probably putting together her usual concise report on who the dead men were, beyond names and addresses, and whether any of them had enemies, or knew each other, or members of any association. There was little else to see.

Lisbon insisted on talking to the local store owner herself, leaving Jane to wander the alley on his own. The only thing of note besides drifting refuse was the body of a dead rabbit that had been there a few days. Most likely run over by a car. Flies had already begun to lay eggs in its eyes and mouth.

Jane wandered back to the SUV and awaited his boss to give them the head-home word.

When she approached, “Well?” He asked.

She shook her head. “No one saw or heard anything.”

Jane shrugged. “No surprise. Back alley, stinks of garbage and dead things...”

“What dead things?” When Jane didn’t elaborate Lisbon hopped up into the driver’s seat. “Let’s go home. We’ll check out the other two crime scenes tomorrow.”

-  
-

Jane threw his housekeeper with a smile and wave. She only came Wednesday nights and was driving away as Lisbon dropped him off. Lisbon remarked at the expense of a housekeeper to clean a house that was virtually unlived in.

“Call it a weakness. ‘Nite Lisbon.”

Jane walked through his silent living room, tossing his suit jacket across the back of an ornate wooden chair.

He liked the house more after Donna had been there. It smelled clean and fresh with the slightest lingering hint of her perfume. Hands had touched things and moved them around. Dust was disturbed and resettled after her shoes had walked by. The presence, however brief, of another human being lent it an air of still being an active part of his life. This was his family’s home, he and Angela had spent weeks finding just the right house, and he’d be damned if Red John was going to get that too.

 

Going home for Lisbon also more often than not meant going to the office and Teresa wasted no time with greetings. “Grace? Anything on the gang tag?”

Van Pelt hated to disappoint her boss. “Nothing like it exactly, but I did find a homicide in Oakland where the killer wrote “Have a nice day” on the victim’s cheek.” She threw her boss a grimace. “But that was nine years ago and the perp’s been rotting in jail since then.”

Lisbon nodded. She hadn’t expected anything, though it would have been nice to find something close enough to their tag so she could tell Jane to wipe the disputed look off his face and go back to his pot of tea and naps. “Oh. Well, keep checking.” She could think of nothing else for Van Pelt to do.

Van Pelt looked around. “Where’s Jane?”

“I dropped him off at home.”

“He’s sleeping at home? He has an apartment? I mean he almost never -”

“Goes there, I know.” Lisbon said. “He has a house. A very large, very expensive house in fact.”

Van Pelt made the connection. “You mean the house where?-oh.”

Lisbon nodded. “Yup.” Jane slept at the office often, usually more nights than at home. Home was where his family life had been brought to a bloody halt by Red John. Lisbon wondered why Jane didn’t sell the place. Too many good memories along with the bad maybe. She would never have been able to continue in that house. As soon as she had felt able, at the first opportunity in fact, she would have unloaded the place.

But maybe the point was that Jane wasn’t able to move on. He was stuck in his grief and rage at Red John. As often as Jane drove her to drink she also felt sorry for him – a sad distant pity sometimes swam over her whenever she thought of him coming home to that cruel note and the bodies of his mutilated wife and young daughter. Lisbon would never let on that she felt pity of course. Jane hated pity.

Who doesn’t?

 

C-------------B------------I

 

A fourth murder was called into Lisbon’s home phone and she roused the rest of the team to meet her at the crime scene.

Jane wore his brown walking shoes since this crime scene had not happened inner city. Yoho wildlife area was a popular attraction for the surrounding towns.

Jane saw Lisbon and Cho talking to the coroner and a local office. The body was slumped nearby, a plastic sheet draped over it. A man’s shoes could be seen poking out of one end. Jane ignored the official talk and drew the sheet back.

He was a middle aged blonde man wearing office pants and a shirt with a loose tie. No jacket was visible anywhere near the body. “Lisbon.”

Lisbon ended her conversation with her colleagues and walked over. “Coroner thinks he was killed this morning between one and there AM according to the liver temperature and the exposure. His wallet isn’t missing.”

Jane had noted the wallet and car keys already bagged and lying beside the body, and the drawing of the tiger’s face on a small piece of paper in its own sealed plastic bag beside them. “Who found him?”

“Jogger. PD already questioned him and let him go. Later we’ll question him ourselves.” She noted Jane’s face. It was not the face she had been noticing the last few days, it was that face and something else. Jane was genuinely puzzled. “What’s bothering you about this one?”

“Not robbery. The last three haven’t been robbed. Just...killed.”

“Serial killers don’t kill for the money.” Jane would know that better than anyone.

“No, but they usually take it anyway. Ties, wallets, rings, clothes, even hair and skin are trophies to most serial killers. Our perp’ seems to have some other purpose.”

“Killing is his purpose. He gets off on it.”

“He or she, and I agree except...”

Lisbon felt her stomach flip-flop. The look was back. “Except what?”

Jane finished her examination of the body. He had not expected to garner anything new. “It’s more like the killings are his purpose, not the individual killing themselves.”

Even though Jane spooked her with his telltale trouble-making look, she was no fool. If Jane thought something was off, she’d be stupid to dismiss it. “I don’t follow.” Lisbon said.

Jane was staring down at the dead man. “He wasn’t killed her.”

Lisbon was glad to have Jane on her team. He missed nothing. “Coroner suspects he was killed elsewhere and transported here. His head was almost caved in this time but little blood at the scene.”

“Any other marks on the body?” Jane pointed to one out-turned shoe. “Other than the grass stains on the tips of the shoes?”

“Medical Examiner’ll have to go over the body before we know anything.” As if on cue, two men in white jackets carrying a body board approached the crime scene and looked at Lisbon. She nodded. “We’re done.” They bagged and lifted the dead man, tucking him away in a nearby waiting County Coroner van.

“I have an idea what they might find.” Jane muttered. “Why drag a body when you don’t have to?”

Lisbon heard him. “What are you talking about? What will they find?”

Jane smiled at her. Disarming, always, that smile. “I’m probably wrong.”

Lisbon knew if Jane wasn’t ready to talk to her about a theory, there was no use pressing him.

“Where’s Van Pelt and Rigsby?” Jane asked.

Cho joined them. “Coroner’ll have a report in a week or so.”

Lisbon was a little taken aback. “A week?”

Cho nodded. “Lots of murders lately.”

True. Other than liquor store robberies and other muggings, things had been quiet lately. This poor fellow made exactly four violent deaths in as many weeks. “Come on. Who hasn’t had breakfast? I’m hungry.” Lisbon had Cho drive them to a favourite cafe located not far from the station.

Lisbon bisected an egg and put it on brown toast. Cho was finishing up a sausage and grits and Jane sipped tea, claiming he had eaten at home, which Lisbon didn’t believe. She had seen Jane eat. During a case he could eat ten times a day, only it was never more than a bite or two. Only when the case was solved did Jane resort to a proper meal, and whenever a hard case dragged on, his face would thin out, becoming shockingly gaunt, like those rare times Red John would show up and drive Jane, and the rest of the team, to many sleepless nights.

“What will the coroner find, Jane?”

But Jane was frowning into his tea cup. “Tea never stays hot enough in tin pots.”

The waitress had brought out Jane’s tea serving in a cheap tin tea-pot that many smaller eating establishments use; non-breakable, dishwasher-safe.

“And the tea turns bitter from the tannic acid acting on the metal.”

Lisbon shook her head a little. “Sorry to hear that. Back to the case - what do you think the coroner will find?”

Jane decided to share his thoughts. “The first three murders happened in the city. Stalk a victim, bash tem over the head. Take their wallet – or not as in these cases.”

“The first victims’ wallet was taken.” Cho reminded him.

“Or he wasn’t carrying one at all.” Jane fell silent, staring down at his bitter, cooling tea.

Lisbon gulped down the last dregs of her coffee. “Okay, foot work today and tomorrow. We check out where our victims lived, worked, we talk to everyone; family and friends. We find out the victims’ hobbies and where they went and what they did during off hours. I want to know their internet affiliations, their nicknames and their dogs’ nicknames too.”

Jane was obviously unsure of his theory, if he had one, or presently too moody to voice it. “I’ll call Rigsby on the way, he and Van Pelt will check out the first two victims. Cho - you Jane and I’ll research the most recent two.” Lisbon waved for the check and Cho offered to pay, pulling out his wallet. “Thanks, Cho.” She stood up. “Let’s get to work.”

 

C------------B------------I

 

“Okay,” Lisbon had her team gathered at CBI after two long days of footwork. “Whatcha’ got?” The question was put to the entire group.

Van Pelt was the first to speak. “Victim number one, John Pappionus was a twenty-nine year old out-of-work stock broker. We think he was killed when he left his apartment to go to a corner store. He had change in his pocket from a cigarette purchase, but no wallet.”

Lisbon stole a quick glance to Jane, who appeared not to be listening. “How do we know it wasn’t taken?” she asked Van Pelt.

“We don’t exactly, but the store clerk didn’t recall seeing a wallet, just a ten dollar bill. John was also carrying keys to his apartment building.” Van Pelt checked her notes. “He was behind in his rent, had a few drinking buddies but no close friends. His sister is back in New Jersey, his parents in Maine. The sister is flying out to identify the body and to make arrangements for its transport home. John had no pets and his hobbies were gaming and strip clubs. That’s about it.”

Rigsby took his turn next. “Second victim; Pieter Adrian Johanssen. Thirty-five years old. Trained as an EMT but was working part time as a night watchman. Born in Denmark, raised here by loving parents. He was living in the loft over his folks’ garage and helping his dad fix cars for extra money. He frequented a local EA group – “

“EA?” Van Pelt asked.

“Emotions Anonymous.” Rigsby said. “He went through a bad divorce, lost the custody of his kid and had been going there ever since. The members all seemed to like them. One member was Julia Swale. She claimed they had been “sort of” dating when he was killed, but said it hadn’t turned serious. The parents are a mess.”

Lisbon shook her head. None of these men seemed serial killer victim typical.

“We dug up much the same stuff.” Cho informed them. “Jeremy Physer and Philip Jesus. Few friends, some family, simple hobbies, nice guys, no run-ins with the law, well-liked, just – “

“Essentially they were all down on their luck loners.” Lisbon finished.

 

Cho nodded his affirmative. “Yes.”

Cho offered the one fact he found interesting. “And Jane was right about the wallet.”

Cho was staring at Jane with a carefully neutral face and Lisbon noted it. It meant Cho was worried about Jane, too. “Jane knows these aren’t typical serial murders.” She said. That’s what she suspected Jane believed. She waited for him to either confirm or deny it.

Jane, un-customarily quiet until then – “It’s a serial killer, that part is obvious. He, or she, gets off on killing; money doesn’t come into it at all, that’s why no wallets were taken. As far as we can tell, there was nothing missing from the bodies so the killer doesn’t take trophies, so I’m wondering why our killer kills?”

Cho leaned forward, clasping his hands on spread knees. “You think there’s another reason other than the thrill?”

Jane shook his head but not because he was saying no. “He’s dumping them in plain sight only the first three he killed where he found them, or where they found him. But he transported the fourth victim to a public area away from the kill site. What was the point except to say something to us – I mean other than “You can’t catch me.”?”

Van Pelt said. “He wants more attention.”

“Oh, he’s got our attention, but he wants a specific kid of attention. I don’t think the killings themselves are all that important to him. It seems like it’s the collection of killings that means something.”

“Means what?” Cho asked, still giving Jane his full attention.

Jane spread his hands, unsatisfied. He stared back at Cho for minute before turning his gaze to Lisbon. “I just don’t understand.”

It was the way he said that Lisbon would later recall. It sounded as though Jane wasn’t puzzled so much by who did the murders, it was too soon in the investigation to suddenly jump up and shout “Eureka! I know who the killer is!” It sounded like he was puzzled that the murders were being committed at all.

“You think he’s trying to say something?” Lisbon asked.

Jane nodded.

“To the police? To the citizens? To one of us?” Rigsby asked.

Jane rubbed the side of his head. “Probably. To one or maybe all three. Specifically what to who or why I don’t know. I don’t...I just...I...I don’t get it.”

The silence filled the room for a moment. Lisbon realised suddenly everyone was just a little bit more concerned than they had been seconds before. If Jane was in the dark, then...

Lisbon was about to ask Patrick if he was okay when Jane stated quietly. “Red John sent me a letter.”

One, two breaths went in and out of her before she could react. “When was this?”

“Last week.” Jane looked at her sheepishly.

Though Lisbon was gratified he finally confessed to the thing that had been bothering him, the thing that had painted that look on his face, the look that frustrated and frightened her all at once, she was also furious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jane cupped his mouth in one hand as though he was just this instant considering the reasons himself. “Because it threw me.” He said finally.

“But John leaves notes all the time, doesn’t he?” Van Pelt asked. “When he commits a murder, there’s a note, when he’s taunted you in newspaper columns...”

“This is different.” Jane said.

Had an anvil dropped in that room, it would have gone unnoticed. No one dared doubt him, his voice was so toneless. Deadly emphatic. “This was a personal letter delivered to my mail-box. No stamp, no return address of course.”

Lisbon knew the answer before she asked, but as an agent, she had to ask. “What about fingerprints?”

Jane rolled his head her way, the tiniest sad smile on his face. “There wouldn’t be any fingerprints.”

No, there wouldn’t be. Red John was nothing if not categorically meticulous. Lisbon leaned against a desk, crossing her arms. “Why does this throw you more than a note? Red John loves his games.”

Jane nodded. “Yes, he does. But his notes have all been public up to this point, impersonal things designed to scare or intimidate. This letter was...personal.” Jane underlined the word. “Like he was speaking to a friend.” His tone of voice for the word friend on his part implied anything but. “As though he and I were willing partners in his little game.”

“We haven’t heard a thing from Red John for a year.” Cho said. “Why now?”

Jane shook his head. This was puzzling him as well. “I don’t know. Maybe so I would relax a little, let down my guard.” Which he had to some extent. He had been foolish enough to hire a maid so he could feel like other professionals just going off to work and then coming home after a hard day to a freshly scrubbed house. So once a week on Wednesdays, he could feel normal for a few hours. “Maybe just to screw with my head.”

Cho looked as worried as Cho ever let himself. “And now he’s back and you think ...what?”

Jane played with a pen on the desk beside him. “I think he’ll start killing again, yes.”

Lisbon made a few decisions while her agents were talking. “I want you in protective custody.” She said.

Jane shook his head. “Red John doesn’t want to kill me. Lisbon, he’s had opportunities. If he wanted me dead, believe me, I’d be dead already.”

Lisbon knew that was true but she needed to do something and just ignoring that Red John was about to go active once more made her fear for Jane. “Maybe not, but we know that’s probably his end game, even if he has to play out all this other crap in the meantime. I want someone to stay with you every minute.” She looked around the room. “Any volunteers?”

They all raised their hands and Lisbon was once more grateful to have such a collection of people working with her. Jane should be count his lucky stars.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Lisbon.” Jane insisted. He took the letter out of his jacket’s’ inside pocket. “If Red John wanted to kill me, he would have. He’s had a week. He had years.”

Lisbon snatched the letter from his hand and read its contents.

Jane was correct. The letter wasn’t typed or even hand-printed, it was black-inked in beautifully scribed penmanship. The letter was personal, not cruel, not even overtly threatening. The chosen words bore a sense of communion, conveying a familiarity beyond mere antagonist and victim. Where before Red John’s communiqué’s had always been mocking and spiteful, now reading the missive over, Lisbon sensed a pathological attachment for Jane from Red John; even affection. This was new.

This was also frightening. She waved the letter at Jane accusingly. “I can’t believe you didn’t mention this letter last week.”

“Teresa, he’s not going to kill me.” Jane said, taking the letter back and tucking it away in his inner pocket again, like a comfortable old friend.

Jane rarely addressed his boss by her first name. Lisbon knew it was possibly to reassure her, but it was also an attempt to soften her stubbornly already made up mind. It was subtle Jane-to-order manipulation.

“Not yet.” Cho remarked.

But that was Red John’s ultimate goal: to beat Patrick Jane, to kill him, but only after taking however many years he choose wearing Jane down to a frazzled, half-mad nub.

“But someday...” Lisbon left the rest unsaid. “Jane, when you’re at the office, you’re with agents and that’s fine. When you’re in the field, you’re with one of us at all times so that’s also fine. But when you’re at home alone, that’s when it’s not fine.” Lisbon nodded to Cho who had been the first to raise his hand as volunteer. “This is not a suggestion. Cho is staying with you tonight.” That was her final word to Jane.

Cho tapped Jane on the shoulder. “Come on.” He said. “It’s already passed seven-thirty and I’m hungry.”

Cho carved into a juicy medium rare steak, munching happily while Jane mutely picked at left-over greasy chicken and fries. Jane’s last piece of fried chicken had lost its crisp coating and was slowly dying in a pool of congealed gravy.

Cho stopped chewing for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell Lisbon about the letter?”

Jane abandoned the food and took a long sip of his Long Island iced tea. “Because she didn’t really believe me when I said Red john was still alive. No one believed me. Not really.”

“She said she did. We all agreed.”

Jane answered with his one-sided ironic smile. “You were being supportive, not honest.”

Cho didn’t argue, only now they believed. “Why do you think he’s decided to pop up again?”

“I always knew he would, just not when.”

Cho read between the lines. “You think Red John has something to do with this case?”

Jane shook his head vigorously. “No. These killings have none of his particular sadistic style; no mutilations, no slicing of the throat - and Red John would never not leave his calling card. Never.” His last word was almost a whisper.

Cho could imagine Patrick believing that, given what had happened to his family. But people change. Killers can change too if they really want to. But up until now, Red John had had no reason to alter a thing about his behaviour. He had walked in and out of Jane’s home, and the CBI offices, without anyone turning their heads in suspicion. Red John still came and went as he liked, murdering at will. He was free as the proverbial bird. “Then who do you think killed these people, and I don’t mean so much who as what? What kind of person do you think this is?”

“Who says I have a theory?”

Jane looked tired and Cho did not fail to note the deflecting sort of answer. “Because you always have a theory. And I know something about this case is really bothering you, beyond the coincidental Red John letter.”

Jane sighed rubbing his eyes. “Why did you buy me dinner?”

Cho started a little. Now that was an unexpected deflection. “Because you look like shit.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I mean it. And Lisbon made me promise to make you eat. There, one answer for another. What about the case is bothering you?”

Jane dropped his head and stared into his glass. Then he lifted his eyes and looked into Cho’s with that directionless intensity that Jane only showed when he felt way out of his comfort zone; when he felt afraid. “These killings have no purpose.’ He said finally.

“To the killer the victims are lumps of flesh, disposed of for no discernable reason I can come up with other than to make a point. A point that’s invisible to me. There isn’t even a hint that the murderer took pleasure in their deaths, not the instrument used, not the blood, not the money, not the locations or the lay of the bodies.” Jane ran his finger around the edge of his glass. The ice cubes had caused condensation on the outside of it and Jane ran the tip of his finger down each running droplet, encouraging them to make it all the way to the bottom.

“I would expect this sort of lack of refinement and pleasure from someone working in a meat shop, but not from a killer. Not someone who kills again and again. He hasn’t even improved his technique. The only oddity is the last victim.”

“Killed in a park.”

“Killed somewhere then taken to the park, dragged, in fact, for hundreds of meters - there were no tire tracks on the grass. That makes even less sense. Why drag a body when you don’t have to? Why with the fourth victim was that suddenly important?”

Good questions. Cho didn’t have an answer yet, but he was confident they would find one. “Maybe he’s a serial killer in training? Maybe he’s just being born?”

Jane stared at his workmate with respect. “Now that is a very profound statement. That could explain some things.”

“What things?”

Jane waved away another drink offer from the barmaid. Cho had said he looked like shit and now he was feeling it. “Can we go? I need some sleep.”

“Sure.”

-  
-

Cho had never been to Jane’s house before and complimented him on it. It was big and airy, and almost every room had floor to ceiling windows.

“Angela liked the sun.” Jane explained as though by the windows being there was somehow wrong.

“I like it.” Cho said. It was high praise. “Where do I sleep?”

Jane pointed up. “Top of the stairs, third door on the left. Guest bedroom. It’s open.”

“Thanks. Mind if I have a shower in a while?” He wanted to discuss the case a little more before retiring.

“My house is yours.” Jane said from below.

Climbing, Cho didn’t fail to note the door at the head of the staircase - the master bedroom. Its door was padlocked. He wondered which room Jane slept in now.

Cho cleaned up and changed into sleepwear. He was a plain man and liked clean lines and flat tones and his PJ’s were thin, comfortable black-dyed cotton.

When he returned to the kitchen, Jane had a kettle boiling hard and was taking out the makings of tea. Jane had removed his suit jacket and shoes, but was still dressed in his work pants, pressed shirt and habitual vest.

His choice of office wear was a little out of date, almost no one wore the more formal-looking suit vest anymore, but somehow it suited Jane. He made it work for him, or perhaps they had all simply gotten used to it. Cho thought more the former. Jane’s choice of clothing was, after all, the expected, slightly more flamboyant attire of the long-time performer, of the television persona’. Yes, once upon a time, Jane had had a Public.

Now he had a psychopath.

Over tea and some cookies Jane had found in the depths of his cupboards, Cho broached the subject of their killer again. “You think this guy is really new? New to this type of “work”?”

Jane, legs crossed and tea in hand shrugged. “It’s possible. He’s a killer, but he doesn’t like the wet work of a knife or the noise of a gun. He likes a good, quiet solid object. And he kills from behind which means he’s either too scared to face his victim or too ashamed to. But it’s a difficult weapon of choice. It takes strength to kill like that.”

Jane sipped his tea. “It takes strength to kill at all.” He added softly, looking over at Cho.

Cho couldn’t fathom the expression. After nearly four years of knowing the man and working with him every day, Cho was curious about the things he didn’t know about Jane. Maybe there were things he shouldn’t know?

“It isn’t easy, you know, killing someone.” Jane said again, still looking at Cho in that unnerving way he sometimes had.

Cho stared back. Was Jane confessing his guilt over Tim carter? Was he sorry, confused or looking for absolution? “Carter deserved to die.”

Jane looked away but didn’t comment. “Our killer... might be a young murderer stretching his wings but I doubt it. I doubt it because this man makes no sense to me at all and serial killers by their nature make some sort of insane sense somewhere along the line, if you know how to read the victims and destruction they leave behind. But this guy is a blank. So I think eventually the killings might mean something. They seem to be the only things that could.”

“How so?”

“When there are enough to make it obvious.”

“More bodies?”

Jane nodded, draining his cup. “Yes.”

As simple as that. So the case was they had a killer who was most likely going to keep on killing and they had no eye-witnesses, no clues, no murder weapon, no DNA or finger prints left at the scene, no tire tracks – and no idea who he was. Jane, the man who knew people and killers, who had been stalked by Red John for years and was himself so off the graph of human normal when it came to his brilliant mind and uncanny intuition that they sometimes feared for his sanity, was at a loss.

Cho wondered if maybe this case had shaken Jane’s confidence. Cho couldn’t help it. He cared for this man, more than he liked to admit. “Are you all right – really?”

Jane could not fail to hear the concern in his friend’s voice, or see the very rare twist of worry on his features. He knew Cho had feelings for him, though how deeply they went he was unsure. But now was not the time to think about that.

Somehow though, he felt now was the time for honesty. He felt lost in his profession, ineffectual in friendship, and as for a personal life, none existed for him at all anymore and hadn’t for many years. And, what’s more, he knew if he did not accept someone’s help now, right now, he might start a long, crushing fall from which he could not pull himself up. Not this time.

Jane hadn’t felt this afraid in years, and he didn’t even know why. “Really – no.”

C-----------------B----------------I

 

Red Matter – Part 2

 

C---------B----------I  
By blood a king, in heart a clown.  
Alfred Lord Tennyson  
-  
-  
-  
-  
Lisbon walked to the general center of her agent’s shared office space and spoke. “Coroner said the only unusual thing on the fourth victim was a scent.”

Jane raised his head from his book. Lisbon noted the theme; something about criminal psychological something-or-other’s.

“What scent?” Jane asked, folding the book’s page, closing it and setting it aside.

“Woman’s perfume. It’ll take another week to narrow down the formula and maybe trace the manufacturer and possibly where it was purchased. No other physical evidence was recovered from the body.”

Jane scratched his chin. “The fourth victim was a large man – a hundred, eighty pounds at least - that’s a big body for a woman to drag, wouldn’t you say?” He asked no one specifically.

Lisbon said it. “Two killer’s maybe - a team.”

Rigsby countered. “Or maybe a man wearing women’s perfume to throw the police off the track?”

Jane shrugged. “Maybe. Hefting large bodies around is more a man’s chore for certain, but...”

“But what?” Cho asked.

Jane didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was with a non-committal twist of his mouth. “I don’t know.”

Cho didn’t think so. Jane was right about one thing for sure; few women could drag that much weight over hundreds of meters. “If the body had not been moved, hadn’t been man-handled, then we might not have gotten the perfume residue.”

Jane nodded. “Very true.” He said. “The others were all killed from behind and left where they fell. No contact at all, no chance for the perfume oils and alcohol to transfer to the clothes or skin. This was a crystal clear rookie mistake.”

“A young killer.” Cho said. “Trying to impress –“

“Not a young killer, we were wrong to think that.” Jane corrected him before he could speak further. “Not a chance. Our killer moved the body deliberately, so we would have something to work with. The perfume might be a mistake, but we have a smart, seasoned murderer who’s now communicating with us. He was giving us bodies to announce he was around and now he’s giving us clues by moving the bodies.”

Jane narrowed his eyes as though a headache had just formed behind them. “He thinks he’s much more intelligent that any of us and he wants us to know he can play the game any way he wishes. And he can change the game up if he wants to. That’s why he, or perhaps they, moved the body. It was never about the bodies or the kill; it was about talking to us. And he’s not done talking. Not by a long shot.”

Lisbon answered her ringing cell phone, speaking for a moment, closing it then turning to them. “Victim number five just turned up at a closed public pool. Let’s go.”  
-  
-  
“Jesus Christ.” Van Pelt couldn’t help but swear under her breath when the uniforms showed Lisbon and the team to the fifth victim. This time the body was draped over the stair end of a low diving board. His skull had almost been obliterated, and his hands were tied to the diving board with his own shoe laces. He was wearing casual pale pants and a black golf shirt. What hair was still visible beneath the blood and remaining brain matter was the colour of ginger. His belt was undone but still hanging in the loops. Blood had dripped into and red-spattered the blue paint on the bottom of the empty swimming pool.

Lisbon tried to control her revulsion. After so many years, it was getting easier. “Any ID?” She asked the officer.

“Yup.” The office handed her a sealed bag holding a bill fold and a driver’s license. “Husband and father, Reid Pollock. Reported missing this morning when he didn’t show up for work. And...” the officer added, “You might want to speak to the Medical Examiner about it but the coroner said most of the guy’s brains are missing. Looks like he took them with him.”

Lisbon swallowed the gag in her throat.

After hearing the officer’s report and noting there was little else to learn about the body at present, Jane wandered over to where the tiger tag was painted on the walls of the locker and shower booths. The sun didn’t reach far enough into the overhang to illuminate it well, and the colours looked a little off.

Lisbon met him halfway back to the vehicles. “This place has been closed for renovation for months.” She said.

“Yes.” Jane casually waved one hand at the nearby buildings. “Industrial, mostly, around here. No one was likely to come by when the poor fellow was being murdered. He was not dragged this time, he was killed right here. And this was another change-up from one victim to the next. Whoever our killer is, he’s anxious for us to learn. Plus he zombied the poor man.”

“Excuse me - “zombied”?” Lisbon asked, one eyebrow crouched and the other climbing.

“He came for the brains.”

Lisbon climbed into the driver’s seat, followed by Jane in the passenger. The rest of the team was given foot work and instructed to meet back at CBI later that afternoon. As for the body, Lisbon left it to the Coroner and the CSI’s to wrap up the scene, their own part was over.

The next phase of the job was the most disturbing aspect of her responsibilities - talking to the victims’ family. “The killer’s anxious for us to learn you said.” Lisbon started the engine. “Learn what?” she asked, wishing Jane knew more than he did or if he did know, said what it was he thought he knew. “What’s he trying to say to us?”

Jane’s answer was almost as disturbing.

“Other than he has a hard-on hate for middle aged, average looking, unremarkable men, I have no idea.”

-  
C---------B--------I  
-

Cho took the second night’s watch at Jane’s home. This night little talk occurred and Cho ordered take-out. Jane declined pizza and settled for a sandwich of tuna and lettuce.

Cho couldn’t recall Jane having gone shopping over the previous week. “When did you find time to go food shopping?” He asked, seeking something to talk about if nothing else.

Jane sipped water and digested his meagre meal. “My housekeeper does it for me on Wednesday’s.”

“Oh.” He had no idea Jane had a housekeeper. Actually it was difficult to imagine Jane in any domestic situation that didn’t involve blood on the wall or a fresh victim at his feet. Patrick Jane’s habits of living appeared to revolve around work, and naps at work, interspersed with work, tea, and more work. If Jane had a personal life or friends outside the office, Cho had seen no sign of either.

“Is she good?” Stupid question but he didn’t want Jane to finish his water, clam up and hit the sack. Jane needed to talk, he thought, even if it was only about the case. The man looked haunted.

“She does fine.” Jane said, looking around at the gleaming floors and end tables. “Don’t you like coming home to a freshly cleaned house?” He asked, sounding not much interested in the conversation.

Cho hadn’t much thought about it. He kept his own dwelling, though certainly one not as rich as Jane’s house, decorated to his taste and spotless. Easy to accomplish when you work twelve to eighteen hours a day. “I’m not there much to dirty it.”

Jane suddenly stood up like a man needing to leap from his own skin. He paced the floor in front of Cho, hands clenched and thrust into his suit pants pockets.

“What’s on your mind?” Cho asked. It had to be the case at hand.

“Broad strokes, that’s all I’m getting from this killer, and about all I’m able to give Lisbon. She would do no worse than reading a text book on psychopathic profiling.”

“I doubt that.”

Jane flashed tired eyes at him like Cho was in denial. “Yeah?” He thrust out a hand, dismissing any verbal pandering that might next spring from his colleague’s tongue. “I’m out there giving her garbage, Cho.”

Jane’s pacing remained a steady back and forth and his body language suggested extreme tension. He was coiled and ready to explode from frustration. “I can’t see this guy, Cho, I...can’t see him.” Jane was slowly shaking his head as though thick fog had settled in to stay. “I can’t get inside his head at all. I don’t understand these murders – why would he move the fourth victim? Why? Why do that at all? What did it accomplish for him?”

“Well, the perfume. And to confuse us. You said it yourself; he’s trying to communicate to us how smart he is.”

Jane answered softly. “And yet I get the sense of a man who’s moving furniture around.” He looked at Cho, keeping his eyes on his friend while he slowly walked the living room. “Despite moving the fourth victim, regardless of the recent mutilation on number five, I believe these bodies to him are no more than props.”

With a worried brow Cho tried to follow Jane’s reasoning as his eyes tracked his movements. “What do you mean?”

“Props.” Jane repeated as though that settled it. “Blocks, bricks in a fence, cards on a table, they exist to – they are only useful in furthering a goal. And there are no rules here, not for him.”

 

“Dare I ask...?”

 

“Oh, no, I do not know what that goal is.” Jane was pacing steadily now with small, marching steps, making tiny circles in the carpet by a high dark-wood hutch.

“I feel like...” Jane searched for the answer and for a small second it wouldn’t come. “I think, I believe,..” He circled a finger, encompassing Cho and himself in its intended enclosure. “We’re props, too.”

Still Jane seemed ill-satisfied with his insight and shook his head as if to dispel the incorrectness of his thoughts, if only he knew which those were. “I just don’t understand in what way. And despite what I told Lisbon, it’s not because he’s trying to fool us – that’s nonsense. He knows we’re not idiots.”

 

“Maybe you should sleep on it.” Cho hadn’t wanted to make Jane crazy with his questions and Crazy Jane always left him fretful and on edge. Lisbon was getting grey hairs of late. No wonder.

Jane, realizing how worked up he had become, suddenly came to an abrupt halt in the middle of his wearing carpet. He bit his lip and nodded once, looking away from Cho to the window.

Cho suspected Jane had shown a side of himself he did not often reveal; a man trapped in uncertainty. The fragile human had shown through for a brief moment, a man beset with all the weaknesses common to the species. And now he was a little embarrassed that he had let his walls crack.

In public, at least around his colleagues, Jane always affected a moment by moment control over his own emotions. But always there remained an ethereal quality to Jane. He was like a flesh-covered, tea-drinking ghost who came to work every morning, spoke a few out-of-this-world comments, swept his spectre-being genius through a case and handed over the guilty party, usually without breaking a sweat.

Jane was standing there, as still as a stone wall. The cracks were disappearing once more. “Sorry.” He said.

Cho mumbled something like “Don’t worry about it”, feigning sleepiness. As he climbed the stairs he knew Jane was probably going to curl up on the sofa again. What he wouldn’t give to see those walls fall down just enough to reveal the man in wrinkled pyjamas and dishevelled hair.

But Jane never revealed that much of his humanity to anyone. Jane understood about props.

-  
C---------B------------I  
-

Cho drove and Jane cat-napped in the passenger seat. Stopping for take-out coffees for the team, and a large strong cup of Earl Grey tea for the sleepy Jane, Cho finally roused his colleague and they entered the offices of CBI.

Among thanks for the gourmet coffee, the team figuratively collected their heads and discussed what might be done to further the investigation.

After some talk, Cho said “I’ll speak to the girlfriend of the second victim again. Socially she was closer to him than anyone. Maybe there’s something we missed.”

Lisbon had one eye watchfully on Jane. He had great circles under his eyes and had hardly touched his tea. Jane was about to raise his hand to accompany Cho on his errand when Lisbon put the kibosh on it. “Jane – you’re going to stay here and sleep.”

Rigsby and the others were surprised by Lisbon’s abrupt order, and felt a bit sorry for Jane who appeared embarrassed by her direct, and unusual, command. But her tone indicated she was not the least bit kidding.

Jane barked back at her like a defiant teenager. “I don’t need coddling, Lisbon, I’m fine.”

Lisbon gathered keys and a file folder. “I don’t care what you think you need. You’re a mess, Jane, it’s obvious even to me. Stay here willingly or be suspended and we’ll have you babysat until you’re well.”

Jane stood and walked away from her. “Then suspend me.”

Lisbon sighed as she heard Jane pound the elevator button a few times. She looked at Cho. “You don’t seem to mind watching the blonde fire-cracker, how about it?”

Cho nodded and stood to follow Jane.

“Wait a second.” Lisbon said before he could slip away. “Stop at the Medical Examiner’s office, see where he is with the perfume analysis.”

Cho hated to delay. “Sure, boss, but...”

“Jane’ll be fine for a half hour.” Lisbon was angrier at Jane than she realised. Jane was a first rate investigator, but when he didn’t take care of himself, it wasn’t just his own safety that was compromised, it was the teams, and she was not going to let Jane go into the field if he was already so dead on his feet he could hardly stand.

A short nod was his answer to Lisbon and Cho broke some of the speed laws reaching the ME’s office, which was at the other end of town from Jane’s house.

Cho used the front door key Jane had provided and let himself in. “Jane.” He called. His ugly French car was parked in the driveway, so he had to be home. Cho could hear the shower going and breathed a sigh of relief.

Red John would be unlikely to have simply shown up and killed Jane because, as Jane had pointed out to Lisbon, the bastard could have already killed him half a dozen times over if he had set his mind to it. Red John had other plans for his favourite prey. In the meantime Red John satisfied his predilection for sadism by taunting and haunting the man he was set to someday destroy. Red John didn’t do stand-up fights. He was a fucking coward.

Cho wandered into the kitchen to look for healthy munch-ables. The cupboards offered little in the way of snack food, however. It was hard to believe, the way Jane sometimes showed up for work, half asleep and white as a ghost, but he actually took pains caring for his health. Jane was rarely a junk-food burger and fries man.

The refrigerator offered some celery and carrots already chopped and waiting in ice-water and sealed in Tupperware, so Cho helped himself.

The water upstairs ran steadily. It was a comforting sound. A good, hot shower, fresh clothes and maybe some fresh prospective would be beneficial for Jane. Ever since the Tim Carter shooting, he had been less than himself, or other than himself. Cho wasn’t sure.

He put the kettle on, intending to have tea ready. Cho knew it was a trifle more homebody, and more flirtatious, than was the norm for him, but Jane would have to live with it.

The kettle sang and Cho poured the steaming liquid into a large, English brown ceramic tea-pot. It wasn’t one of those cheap imitations that you bought at Wal-Mart either, this pot was the real hand-thrown and glazed, hundred and fifty dollar deal.

The shower was going still and Cho waited at the kitchen counter for the tea to steep into a strong brew. He listened.

Never a variation in the running water from the bathroom upstairs reached his ears. Steady steam, unbroken spray.

Which meant there was no one standing beneath it.

Cho suddenly felt how still the house was. He glanced into the living room and saw Jane’s suit jacket, this one black, hanging over a chair in the marble foyer. Jane looked good in black. Amazing actually, with the barely controlled blonde curls and the smarmy grin to complete the ensemble. Cho loved that suit.

“Jane.” He called.

Rounding a corner into the wide, main hallway, Cho found out why everything was so still. Stupid of him not to check the whole house when he had entered. Stupid to not have made certain everything was all right and Jane especially.

Short sighted of all of them to think Red John was somewhere out of sight, waiting in the background, leaving Jane in temporary peace, to believe the letter had been anything less than a genuine immediate threat.

Jane was lying at the bottom of the open staircase, a small pool of blood around his head and his right foot caught and twisted in between two thick iron railings.

Cho pulled out his phone and dialled 9-1-1, then stripped off his own jacket and bundled it beneath Jane’s bloody hair. The loss of blood was a concern, but a quick check of the pulse at his throat confirmed Jane was still breathing and still had a heartbeat. Cho could have kicked himself into the middle of next week. “Shit!”

There was little Cho could do for Jane without the EMT’s bags and IV’s and oxygen masks. Cho began to make observations, though, as his investigative instincts kicked in.

Jane was wearing his black pants and a white dress shirt half way unbuttoned. Evidently, he had been preparing to shower when he’d been attacked from behind. It had to be Red John’s handiwork, even if the MO was way off, because despite the similarity to their recent investigation, this could not be their recent perp’. No way could their UnSub have guessed that Jane would be home alone for a half hour. Only Red John kept his eye that tightly focused on Patrick.

Jane’s head was heavy in his hands and Cho let it rest for a few minutes on his make-shift jacket pillow. He found a woolly couch throw and draped it over Jane to keep him warm. The blood loss would ensure a drop in body temperature and at this juncture, that would not be good.

Gently Cho placed one flat palm over Jane’s heart and was reassured by the strong beat he felt there. What would it have felt like to have discovered his flesh motionless, cooling, and hollow of life? Cho swallowed. If this was anything close to the agony Jane must have gone through discovering the bodies of his wife and young daughter, to the emergency at hand by comparison Cho suddenly felt inadequate. He thought he might begin to blubber right there in the hallway.

Half a mountain of feelings for Jane were bouldering down on him; an avalanche threatening to bury him alive. Cho knew then. He knew it. The blinding revelation had arrived and they had collided; a stark witness to Jane lying on the floor and Cho, bending over him, now terrified of losing him.

Here at this horrible moment, a situation he had neither anticipated nor imagined, Cho knew that he loved him. This was an enormous complication in the wrong time and place, one he had no idea how to properly handle. Why in the hell had fate ever set him on its dangerous road to meet Patrick Jane?

The sirens of the ambulance and police finally made themselves known and Cho almost fell over with relief. At the pounding of fists on the front door, Cho yelled as loudly as he could “IN HERE!”

The EMT’s made short work of checking Jane’s vitals, starting basic treatment and radioing back to Emergency what they might need ready for him. Head injuries were tricky. One day a man could seem as right as rain, the next an autopsy was being performed to figure out what they had missed.

-  
-  
Lisbon, her face white, her eyes clouded with guilt, asked after Jane’s condition from Cho. The doctor was too busy to leave his patient for the time being.

 

Cho was pacing a waiting area. Lisbon was seated nearby, quietly questioning him. “How did this happen? Did he fall?”

Cho was prepared to disregard any theory other than the killer they had all grown too familiar with. “Of course not. He was struck. He was pushed. It was Red John. It had to be.”

Lisbon was far from convinced. “Red John doesn’t work like this, Cho, you know that.”

Cho glanced down at her, not ready to accept that Jane had simply fallen and struck his head. “Come on.” Cho argued. “He’d started the shower, he was undressing. Why would he come back downstairs? He knew I had a key.” If he had only arrived fifteen minutes earlier. If only Lisbon hadn’t sent him on a pointless errand.

Lisbon knew Cho was angry with her for making him leave Jane alone and unprotected. “I’m sorry, Cho. I shouldn’t have sent you to the EM’s office. I should have realised Jane was more worn down that he appeared.”

“Worn down? I thought you were worried about Red John? Because of the letter?”

Lisbon had the grace to look embarrassed. “I used it as an excuse to keep an eye on Jane. Looks like I was right.”

Forgiving Lisbon for her carelessness maybe, Cho was still angry. But he was also still mad that Lisbon assumed Jane had just suffered a clumsy fall in his own house. On stairs he had climbed probably thousands of times. “He was pushed, Lisbon. He fell from the top to the bottom. Badly sprained an ankle and damn near caved his head in. This was not a simple accident.”

“The why would Red John not stay around and finish the job?” Lisbon began to see a light breaking around Cho and his feelings for Jane. “I know you care about him.” She ventured gently, and then even further, “Maybe more than you’ve let on to anyone.” But business was business and their business was looking at the facts. “We found strands of Jane’s hair caught in the railing at the top of the stairs along with a smear of blood. The doctor says the wound is consistent with a blow to the back of his head caused by his head striking the corner of the railing.”

Cho rubbed hands down his face. Sighed heavily.

“I know you want to make someone pay for this, Cho, but the fact is there’s no mystery. Jane fell last night. Be happy that if not for you he might have died.”

Cho nodded, still not convinced. But Jane being alive because he had found him when he did, however delayed, was something he could hang onto. “Okay.” For now, he acquiesced to Lisbon’s judgement about it.

“Have you seen him?” Lisbon asked quietly. Somehow, around an emergency room, even in spite of the constant hustle and bustle of a busy staff, soft voices seemed appropriate.

“No.” Cho couldn’t sit. He had to keep moving or punch holes in the walls.

Lisbon knew she needed to say it, before things had the chance to go too far in whatever this was that was between Cho and Jane, if anything was at all yet. “Cho, you know, don’t you, the rules about – “

But Rigsby and Van Pelt took that very moment to arrive, forestalling any possible boss/employee heart-to-heart. “We heard.” Van Pelt said breathing rapidly after their mad dash. “Cho said Jane was attacked?”

Lisbon stood. “No, not attacked. It was an accident.”

Van Pelt looked from her boss to Cho and back. “But he’s okay?”

Cho nodded. “Yeah. He will be.” Hoping the doctor was right in that.

“He’s got a sprained ankle and a skull fracture.” Lisbon added. “Not as serious as the doctors first thought but he’s going to be in here for a few days.” Lisbon did not look over at Cho. “And then he’s going to need some in-home assistance for a while.”

Rigsby was about to offer when Lisbon said “CBI’s willing to foot the bill for an in-home assistant, but Cho’s already assured us he can handle it.”

Lisbon hoped it was true, and that she was right in allowing it. Whatever was going on between Cho and Jane, it hadn’t revealed itself, not yet at any rate and she had no right to control their movements outside the office. Not at this time, and not as things lay.

Doctor Bothas appeared to let them know they could go in and see their friend, and Rigsby and Van Pelt followed him to Jane’s private room.

Cho lingered in the hallway with Lisbon. “Cho,” She implored. “About Jane, I...” What warning does one convey about a man like Jane? “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Cho understood her meaning. He figured she had already guessed his feelings for Jane, no matter how hard he had tried to hide them. Lisbon had guessed more than even Jane had. “You worried I’m going to hurt him?” Never. Not a chance. Impossible to conceive.

Lisbon nodded. “Jane’s a good man, Cho, but I was thinking more about you.”

Cho thought he got where she was heading. “Red John. Jane’s obsessed with revenge over him, and anyone who gets in his way...”

 

Lisbon nodded, glad to see her meaning hit its mark. “Yes. Jane can get hurt, but so can you.” Lisbon sighed. She’d drop in to see Jane for a minute before heading back to the office. “Just be careful.”

-  
C-------B----------I  
-

Jane eased off the bed and onto a pair of crutches Cho had ready for him. To protect his injured ankle, the doctors had wrapped it in a tensor bandage that rose half way to the knee joint. Jane’s still cracked but healing head bore a loose bandage that he couldn’t wait to divest himself of the minute he was off the hospital grounds.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Cho asked.

Careful not to nod and give himself a headache, “Yes.” Jane said. “I’m going nuts here, the bed is terrible and the food alone is enough to injure a man.”

Cho gathered up the small bag of things Jane had collected over the four days of his hospital confinement. CBI had sent perfunctory flowers in a glass vase, Lisbon had brought him a few books to read, Rigsby a hand-held game player and Van Pelt a stuffed Mister Snuffleupagus. Cho had brought him daily travel mugs of brewed gourmet tea from a largely unknown hole-in-the-wall business whose owner imported it from India just for the CBI specialist who frequented her establishment.

“I think Louise has a crush on you.” Cho commented, referring to the tea-shop owner.

Jane crutched his awkward limb to the elevator, managing to hold onto to both crutches while his travel mug dangled near the right grip from a single index finger. “Yes she does. A woman of taste.” He tucked one crutch under his elbow and held up the mug. “Her tea, that is.”

The joke was irritating. “You encourage her flirtations to procure tea? That’s hardly ethical.” Damned annoying, too.

“I pay for it, and she’s the one who bats the eyelashes, not me.” Jane answered. “Too tall.”

Cho recalled Jane’s wife not being exactly a short woman. “Wasn’t your -?”

Jane tapped the crutches on the elevator floor. “The crutches. Too tall.”

“Oh.” Cho looked away. “We’ll get them adjusted.”

Once Cho had Jane settled in the passenger seat, he turned onto the highway and into traffic.

“We’re going the wrong way.” Jane told him. “My house is east of here.”

Cho kept his speed steady and his eyes on the road. “You’re staying with me.”

Jane stared at him across the consol. “Oh.” He said. “Okay.”

Cho was curious. “No protests?”

Jane gave a half shrug. “Makes sense. I can’t do stairs easily and you live in a two bedroom apartment. Everything on one floor.”

“Well, good. That’s settled then.”

“Yes.” When Cho kept taking his eyes off the road to look over at him, Jane asked “What?”

“I dunno’. I thought you’d argue more.”

“I don’t argue about everything.”

“Ha.” Cho blurted in a dog-like yip.

“You think I’m a difficult person.” It was not a question.

Cho forced his attention back on the road. “I think you enjoy making others crazy.”

“And yet here you are, taking me to your home. Interesting.”

Cho stared over at Jane, trying not to look alarmed. “Why is it interesting? You think helping a friend is out of character for me?”

Jane was playing with his jacket sleeve. “So hard to know for sure.”

“To know what for sure?”

“Whether it’s out of character or whether we’re friends.”

Cho was getting a bit hot under the collar with the whole inquiry. “You want to go home?”

“No, I want to put my foot up and have some tea.” Jane answered, deciding it was wise to cool the atmosphere in the cab. “You do have tea, don’t you?”

“I’m Korean.”

“I knew a Korean man who ate nothing but Italian.”

“If I tell you, will you shut up from now to the apartment?”

“Deal.”

“To answer your question, I have nine kinds of tea.”

Now it was Jane who stared at Cho. “See? Interesting.”

“You said you’d shut up.”

“I am.” Jane said. “I’m just d-o-i-i-ng i-t sl-o-o-o-w-l-y.”

-  
C--------B---------I  
-

 

When Cho put an electric kettle on to boil and excused himself to the bathroom, on sock feet Jane hopped into the kitchen and looked in each of the selection of drawers, pulling out one after the other. When he heard the toilet flush he hopped back to the sofa and eased himself down into it, propping his bandaged foot up on the coffee table.

The top of the table, now his foot rest, was smoked bevel-edged glass but it was the triple supports beneath that made it beautiful – a black and red beautifully carved dragon, which front legs supported one end of the glass top, and the back legs the other. The long dragon tail curved up and around to form a short handle on one end of the glass, making a grip to facilitate the heavy table being moved here and there.

All of Cho’s furniture bore evidence of being carefully selected one-of-a-kind items. His tastes in framed art ranged from Greek mythology to the abstract. Everything showed splashes of color but nothing was garish against the cream carpets and the soft grey paint on the walls.

Cho made Camomile tea and set the cups on the dragon table, making sure the honey and cream, if he wanted either, were within Jane’s reach.

Jane watched Cho as he moved around the apartment, hanging up his coat and stashing Jane’s overnight bag in the spare bedroom.

When Cho returned to the living room and his own mug of instant decafe’ coffee, he noticed Jane grimacing whenever he had to move the foot to ease pressure on his twisted ankle. If the pain he was in was any indication, this stay would be more than one night for sure.

Cho grabbed a small cushion and held it out in front of Jane’s foot. Jane realised Cho wanted him to lift his foot and use the cushion to support his overextended ligaments. “Thanks.” He said. With the cushion beneath it, his ankle hurt less.

“Where are your pain killers?” Cho asked.

Jane was grateful. He should take some for sure or he wouldn’t be able to sleep. “In my bag.”

Cho disappeared for a moment and reappeared with the small vial of pills, handing them to Jane, who quickly popped the lid off and swallowed three of them, washing them down with two large gulps of sweetened Chamomile. He let his head rest against the supportive cushions of the black leather sofa, closed his eyes, and waited for the pills to take effect. The pain in his ankle was bad but, without the pills, the aching in his head was intolerable. When some of the pain had eased, Jane opened his eyes again and noticed Cho was looking everywhere but at him.

“Thanks, Cho.” He said to get his friends attention.

Cho, ever the straight-edged colleague, looked at him and said. “No problem.”

But Cho didn’t know to what he was referring. “I mean, I never thanked you for saving my life.”

“You bumped your head, Jane. Doctors said there was never any danger of that.”

“Yes, but if you hadn’t volunteered to help me out...” Jane shrugged, leaving the notion dangling.

“Not a problem.”

Cho was nothing if not a hard man to crack. “Good tea.” Jane remarked. “Fresh leaves, too.”

Cho was silent. A man temporarily without a response.

Jane stared at Cho until it was obvious his friend was made uncomfortable by it. “You’re flirting with me.” Jane announced quietly. Stated as fact. No room for argument. Don’t even try to deny it.

Cho stared back, unblinking. He was deciding how to respond to it, or whether to. “Wha-? Why-?”

“You went shopping yesterday. You bought seven of those teas in your cupboard yesterday.”

Cho, caught like a field mouse by a wild cat – “I could return them, if that makes you feel better.”

Jane rolled his eyes then regretted it when the action made his head worse. “Come on, Cho, why are you denying it? I’m not insulted, I assure you.”

“You want me to take you home?”

Jane let a low frustrated growl out between his teeth. Damn the man’s greased exterior. “No, I don’t want to go home; I want you to not be embarrassed.”

Cho looked away. “I’m not.”

“’Course you are.” Jane reasoned. “You’re having feelings, new feelings and you don’t know what to do with them, so you...”

Cho was tense, ready to jump up and walk from the room. Emotions, ones he did not want to deal with right then, were dripping all over and he was getting wet. Almost a challenge - “I’m what?” with some self preservation thrown in.

Jane held his empty tea cup and stared from it to his friend and back. “You’re...buying me dinner and tea.”

Cho sighed, rubbing his face. Suddenly he felt very tired, even a little angry. “So I bought you dinner...”

Jane answered before Cho could deny it again. “So, I’m not insulted, I’m not scared and I don’t want to go home. I’m...a little flattered.”

Cho wanted to ask him “Flattered and?” or “What now?” but he was too nervous about the answer, and he was not ready to reveal to Jane anything specific or even how long he had been feeling like this. But most of all at this point he did not yet want to hear Jane say “Thanks but no thanks.” Keeping the fantasy, however hopeless it might be, was preferable for now.

Staring for a few seconds more, Cho finally offered “Okay.” It was stupid but it’s was all his mouth could come up with. His head was full of fuckfuckfuck!

Jane had eaten a meal and rode in his car. With that and a single grocery receipt Jane had effortlessly spliced him and his secret together as easy as Tah-Dah. Goddamn son-of-a-good-looking-bitch.

Cho ventured an inch. “Can we...can we talk about it sometime?”

But Cho’s cellular trilled before Jane could answer. He handed Jane the phone. “It’s Lisbon. We have another body.”

-  
C-------------B--------------I  
-

Red Matter – Part 3

 

The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.  
Edgar Allan Poe

-  
-

“Any idea who he is?” Lisbon asked and she approached a tall police officer. Next to him was a couple of teenagers, a brunette boy and a blonde girl, the girl’s eyes were red from crying. Both appeared about sixteen years old.

“These two found the body.”

Lisbon nodded to the officer, thanking him then spoke to the boy. “This warehouse is abandoned. What were you doing here?”

The boy looked over nervously to the girl. “Nothing.”

The girl elbowed him. “Just tell her, Ian.” When the boy said nothing, she offered “We snuck away from school.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “We wanted to smoke some weed.”

Lisbon nodded, not caring about what they had been smoking. “Did you see anyone around before you went in? Or hear anything? Anything at all?”

Both shook their heads. “Nah.” The boy offered. “When we caught sight of him, we got the hell outta’ there.”

The girl added. “It freaked me out and I said we should call 9-1-1.”

“I’m glad you did.” Lisbon said. “We need statements from you and your home addresses and phone numbers. You have ID on you?”

“I do.” The boy said.

“Good. Tell that officer what you told me. Give him your names and other information, then he’ll make sure you get back to school or home, and from now on stay away from abandoned buildings, okay? Be smart - some of these are so old, they’re likely to collapse on you.”

Dismissing her two witnesses who had neither seen nor heard a thing, Lisbon approached the dark SUV in which Cho and Jane had arrived. Jane was resting his head and foot in the passenger seat, while Cho was attending the crime scene with Rigsby and Van Pelt.  
“Hey.” Lisbon said. Jane had his eyes closed. “Are you asleep?”

His eyes opened. Sharp blues were rimmed in puffy lids. “Not anymore.”

“Sorry. You look like hell, Jane. Are you even eating?”

“You’re asking after my health? How sweet. My housekeeper used to do that. She kept leaving me thermoses of terrible canned soup. My fridge is full of inedible broth. Thankfully she stopped when she had to clean the smell out.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, I’m eating. No, I haven’t yet today.”

“Why not?”

Jane pulled his head forward and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and index finger. Every unnecessary movement caused head pain. And his stomach wasn’t too crazy about it either. “Lisbon, did you want something?”

“Feel well enough to come inside?”

By rolling his neck back and forth on the head rest, Jane shook his head no, immediately regretting the added dizziness. “Get copies of the pictures for me - lots of them, and call me, tell me everything you see inside.” With a sharp intake of air, the dizziness and pain passed. Jane called after her. “Oh, and since you’re so concerned about my eating habits, if there are any vending machines inside, I’d like some chocolate.” He closed his eyes again, drifting between wakefulness and sleep.

Lisbon joined the rest of her team members.

This victim had been dispatched much the same as the fifth one. “What can you tell me?” Lisbon asked Rigsby, who was crouched by the body. The victim was laying face-up, hands and feet bound with wire, his stomach laid open for all to see.

“No blow to the back of the head this time as far as we can tell. We might be wrong- can’t turn him over yet.” The coroner had not yet arrived.

“Drugs? Maybe he was lured here?” Van Pelt said.

“Probably.” Cho pointed it out to his boss though she could see for herself. “Lots of blood loss.” Cho commented. “But that tends to happen when your intestines have been removed.”

Lisbon cringed. “He took the intestines this time?”

Cho nodded. “Most of them, looks like, yeah. Our guy’s getting better at his work.”

Lisbon looked around until she spotted the killer’s tell-tale mark. Broad, fast strokes of red depicting a tiger’s face.

Rigsby noticed her scrutiny of the tag. “By the way.” He noticed her sniffing. “Don’t get any on you, this one isn’t just paint.”

Lisbon leaned in closer. Beneath the pungent smell of acrylic, there rose a fainter odour of bowel. “Feces?”

Rigsby nodded. “Gross but true.”

Lisbon agreed with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, usual routine: canvass the surrounding area, not that I expect anyone to come forward and point out the UnSub, but we have to say we tried.” Lisbon was getting tired of having to say that. “Meanwhile I’ll see where the Lab is on the perfume and anything else we sent them.” It wasn’t much. She glanced at Cho. “Have you re-interviewed the girlfriend of...?”

“Johanssen. Not yet. Can’t get a hold of her. Once we’re done here, I’ll drop Jane off at the office and check out the EA meetings where they met.”

“Good. Meanwhile, Van Pelt and I’ll talk to the family.”

-  
C----------------B--------------------I  
-

Back at the office after breaking the news to the poor man’s family, Lisbon poured herself a cup of coffee and put her feet up for a moment. A courier entered and dropped off a manila envelope for which she had to sign. Her little break from the job was over. “Thank you.” She said as he retreated once more to his other deliveries.

Lisbon walked from her office to the team’s desks. Jane was present and looking a little less ill. Someone must have got take-out as empty containers of Chinese food littered the desks. She hoped Jane had eaten some of it.

Lisbon addressed them all. “Lab report on the perfume.” She read. “It’s called Mezzerine. Not expensive. Sold in a dozen stores in and around Sacramento. Last year, the manufacturer sold over two thousand bottles of it in this and the nearby counties.”

Everyone looked a little disappointed though not surprised. Lisbon sympathised. “We knew it was a long shot.”

“Cho? Anything on the girlfriend?”

He shook his head. “She couldn’t remember anything new. I left her a number to call in case she does.”

Lisbon looked around at the faces of her team. “Okay. I know this sucks but we’re at a dead end, so we revisit the crime scenes, with fresh eyes if possible, and re-interview everyone. Cho and Van Pelt, see about victims’ number four and five. Rigsby, you and I’ll handle the first two. Maybe we can shake something loose.”

Jane spread his hands wide, looking nothing less than the unwanted kid brother who gets left behind. “Excuse me, hello boss-lady, um, what am I doing?”

Lisbon glanced back at him as though he should know. “You’re staying here until I say you’re well enough to resume field work.”

“This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

Lisbon smirked. “Whatever.”

“Come on, Lisbon. At least bring me back a veggie burger.”

Lisbon shook her head, keeping her back to him. “Maybe.” Whispering to herself - “Gross.”

Jane’s jaw dropped. “”Maybe”?” He repeated, looking around for someone to complain to. “What a horrible thing to say to a starving man.”

There were no complaints from the team however. Going over already covered ground was standard when leads fizzled out. Cho lingered until he saw Jane settle down once more on the brown couch. “How’s your head?”

“Sorry, can’t hear you over this jackhammer.”

Cho did his best to keep the worry off his face. In his opinion Jane had been released from the hospital too soon. “Want anything besides a veggie burger?”

“A decent cup of tea.” Rigsby had been making the coffee and tea, neither endeavours his strong suit.

“I’ll take care of it when we get back.” Cho couldn’t help but ask. “You are going to stay here, right?”

Jane, sounding irritated now “Yes.”

When Cho was satisfied Jane was going to play nice and do what he was told, he looked over at Van Pelt. “Feel like a walk in the park?”  
-  
-

-  
The park wasn’t empty anymore. It was the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week and joggers could be seen utilizing its pathways. Vagrants also littered the park benches, smoking and drinking.

“Different in the day time, huh?” Van Pelt recalled the eerie dusk scene of the fourth murder victim. Not a soul around then.

“Yeah.” Cho said, not paying much attention. His mind was on the bench crowd. “When does the last bus leave here for downtown?” He had a hunch, and Jane had always advised him to follow his hunches.

“I don’t know. But the hot-dog stands pack it in around seven.”

“Probably the Park Shuttle bus shortly after that and I know there are no police patrols here after six during the week.” Cho was a fact man but sometimes gut instinct counted for something. He also recalled no street people present the night of the murder. Perhaps they had all left by that time or, if luck was answering, shortly after.

“You got an idea?” Van Pelt was now looking where Cho was looking.

“Yes.” Cho stared walking toward a group of vagrants who watched them approach with wary eyes. Van Pelt fell in beside him.

When he was only a few steps away, Cho took out his badge and Van Pelt did likewise. Cho addressed them. “Excuse me. I’m Agent Cho of the CBI, this is Agent Van Pelt. We’d like to ask you a few questions. Were any of you here last Thursday evening?”

No one said a word for a moment. Then one bolder fellow said “We’re not breaking any laws by being here.”

Van Pelt appealed to their civic duty. “We know, but a man was murdered here. We’d appreciate any help you can give us.”

Cho suspected the small group was being a little too quietly uncooperative to be wholly innocent. “If one of you saw something, we need to know. We’re not looking to take anyone in for questioning unless we have to.”

When that elicited only a cough, Cho decided to use a little Jane-brand persuasion. “Whoever might have seen or heard anything relating to this murder, if you speak up now, we will be very grateful. We are not looking to making an arrest, only to get a statement.” Cho pulled out his wallet and removed a hundred dollars in twenties, holding it up for their inspection. “But, if any one of you knows that someone else in this group saw or heard something and is remaining silent, I’ll give you a hundred bucks to point him out, and then that person does get arrested.”

One of their numbers suddenly sat up straighter and Cho approached him. “You got something to tell me?”

“I didn’t know what it was all about, so I ‘aint done nothing wrong.” The younger man insisted. He was sitting with regular bums, but was dressed like a kid with more money than sense. Expensive, drop-crotch jeans, a tee-shirt that said “Problem Child” and a jean jacket with ink doodles on the sleeves that looked like he’d drawn them himself.

Cho lowered his voice so the conversation would be between him and the youngish fellow, but didn’t get too close. He stunk of marijuana and cheap beer. “What did you do?”

“I only helped move the body. He was unconscious, that’s what I was told anyway.”

Trying to contain her excitement that they might finally have just found a useful witness – “You didn’t know the man was dead?” Van Pelt asked.

“No. I got paid fifty bucks and I needed the money.”

Van Pelt asked “Can you describe the man who paid you?”

The young man looked back and forth between the two officers. “I got paid, yeah, but you got it wrong. It wasn’t no man.” He said, gesturing to Van Pelt with a thumb, “It was a woman.”

-  
C--------------B---------------I  
-

Back at the office, Jane woke up from a short nap. His head felt better, lighter, and his thoughts clearer. He wandered over to Van Pelt’s desk. Photos of the victims and witnesses and their hand-written statements littered the surface.

Cho and Van Pelt charged into the office. “Where’s Lisbon?”

Jane looked up from his casual skimming of the material. “Buying me a veggie burger I hope. Anything?”

Van Pelt almost smiled at the turn of evidence. “Grab hold of your breeches – our killer is a woman.”

Jane did the smallest double-take at the news. Only Cho noticed it.

“Really?” Jane asked, sounding full of doubt. “Really? A woman?”

“Really.” Van Pelt said.

Cho nodded. “We’ve got a witness who’ll swear to it.”

Van Pelt added “Get this – he said he helped her move victim number four, the guy in the park.”

Jane looked from one to the other. “Are you absolutely certain he’s telling the truth?”

Cho looked a little uncomfortable. “He confessed willingly – sort of.”

Jane took careful note of his friend’s body language. “I see. A well placed threat.”

Van Pelt cleared her throat. “Only an implied one, and not by us exactly.”

“Not on the whole.” Cho agreed.

Jane looked satisfied. “Ah-h, my children are growing up.”

Lisbon and Rigsby returned. “Anything to report?” She asked Cho.

It was Jane who answered. “Almost ready to leave the nest, dear.”

Lisbon frowned at Jane. “What?”

Jane caught Cho’s mighty glare. “Nothing, I’m sure Van Pelt here will happily fill you in.”

While Van Pelt told their boss about their first decent witness of the murderer, Jane sat heavily in her desk chair, wondering where his veggie burger was.

Cho noted his face was whiter than it had been earlier. “It’s after six – and you look like you ought to be in bed.”

Jane was tired. “Is that an offer?” Then immediately “Sorry, that was un-called-for. My head is aching and my pills are at your place.”

“You left them at home?”

Jane shrugged. Forgetfulness was supposed to be among the symptoms of a concussion and cracked skull. When the pain had passed, he looked up at Van Pelt’s computer screen.

Checked it again, and a third time.

Pointing to the screen, he looked over at Cho. “Who is this photo of?”

Cho walked over. “That’s Julia Swale. Johanssen – our second victim – that’s his girl friend, the one I interviewed.”

Jane slowly shook his head but not from pain. “No.” He said to Cho slowly. “No, no, no, no it isn’t.” Jane hit the print button on the desktop and a hard copy of the woman in question was produced in under a minute. He held it up to Cho’s face. “This,” He said sharply. “This is Donna Miller.”

Cho wondered if Jane was all right. “Who’s Donna Miller?”

But Jane had snatched up his cane, stood and was walking as fast as his bum ankle would let him to Lisbon’s office. He threw open the door and came in.

“Jane –“ Lisbon began.

“No, Lisbon, this is more important. Why does Van Pelt have a photo of my housekeeper in our case file?”

Lisbon shook her head a little; trying to understand her subordinate’s newest raving. “What are you talking about?”

“This woman, “Julia Swale”? Well, in my house she goes by the name Donna Miller and if they are one and the same, then Donna Miller, my housekeeper, is our killer.”

Lisbon snatched the photo from his hand. “Let me see that.” She looked up at Jane. “Are you sure?”

Jane nodded. “Here her hair is loose and she’s not wearing glasses but, yes, I think I am. There’s one way to know for sure – did the Lab send along a sample of the scent from the body of victim number four, a sample of the actual fragrance?”

“Yes.” Lisbon was already reaching for the plastic bag in question, fishing it out of the case file boxes stacked around her desk. “Here.”

Jane removed it from the bag, unscrewed the delicate lid and sniffed just a little. He then let the perfume waft from the bottle out into the room for a moment. Then he sniffed again. “That is definitely my housekeepers’ perfume of choice.” Jane suddenly had a thought. “What day is it?”

Cho said “It’s Wednesday.”

“She might still be there.” Jane grabbed Lisbon’s phone from her hand and dialled his own house. “No answer.”

Lisbon nodded to Rigsby and the rest. “I’ll call in the local PD to watch the house, but tell them to wait for us.”

Just as she was about to do so, her cellular rang. “What now?” She answered it, listening for a few seconds. “Who? What? Oh for - you’ve got to be kidding me?” She hung it up. “I don’t believe this. Tommy is being arrested; my kid brother. Damnit!”

Lisbon made a decision. This investigation was vital but family was still family. She looked at Cho. “Hell - I have to go and deal with this.” Lisbon sorted out the best approach in seconds. “Van Pelt will process our witness. You, Jane and Rigsby - go. I’ll catch up as soon as I can.”  
-  
C-------------B-------------------I  
-

 

Local PD was right on the money. The grounds had been discreetly searched and secured by the time Lisbon’s team had arrived.

Jane used his house key and opened the door, stepping aside. “Gun toting he-men first.” He said, allowing Cho to take the lead closely followed by Rigsby while Jane took up the rear.

Cho ignored the quip and entered the darkened house. Once Jane was inside he began turning on lights.

Cho signalled for Rigsby to search the main floor, and then whispered to Jane “What are you doing?”

“We have to see, don’t we? I know my way around here but you don’t.” At Cho’s disbelieving expression, Jane rolled his eyes a little. “If she’s here, she already knows it; police car flashing lights and all. I mean, are we going to successfully make an arrest by stumbling around in the dark? Someone could get shot – particularly me.”

Cho relaxed a little. As hard as it was to accept sometimes, most of what Jane said made sense. “No leaving my side.” Cho ordered and Jane threw him an impatient twist of his lip. “Yes, Callahan.”

The house appeared empty and quiet. With soft footfalls, Jane walked into the kitchen. The thermos by which many cups of horror broth had been brought into his home sat on the kitchen counter by the fridge. Jane pointed it out to Cho. “Evidence.” Perhaps the murder weapon itself.

Cho nodded, listening to Jane while making his own observations. There was a glow from the upstairs hallway. “Did you leave lights on upstairs?” He asked softly.

Jane began a slow hobbled ascent up the carpeted steps, shaking his head no. At the tops of the stairs, the source of the glow became evident in a line of light coming from underneath the master bedroom door. In the shadow of the hallway, the padlock was just visible and in place. It was still locked.

“I never leave that light on.” Jane said. “I padlocked that room a year ago.”

Probably a healthy move, Cho thought, as he knew Jane used to sleep in there under the smiling mark of Red John.

“Where’s the key?”

Jane thought about it. “Probably in the kitchen...” Jane sniffed, holding out a questioning finger to Cho. “Do you smell it?”

Cho took a few deeper breaths. “Yes.” Pungent and moist. “Blood.” He said.

Jane could smell something else, too. “And bowel.” He shuddered, and under his breath “Oh, my god.”

Cho jerked his gun hand toward the stairs. Jane was crippled up but he carried no weapon. “I’ll wait here, you get the key.” Cho said.

Jane’s eye caught sight of a large heavy ceramic vase, Mediterranean style, the kind used for balconies mostly, one of Angela’s favourite household pieces. She had seen it in an import store and brought it home for a hallway accent.

Jane hefted it up. It was solid and would do the trick. “Stand back.” He did not know if it might shatter but they were soon to find out.

Jane aimed the hard edge of the round bottom at the padlock and the door handle it hung on, and pounded the vase against both two, three times until the door handle broke off. The vase was undamaged but for chips of ceramic now scattered at their feet. Jane stepped back and set it down, turning to Cho. “Would you mind?”

Cho knew what he meant and raised his foot. One hard kick and the mechanism of the lock inside the wall gave way. The door swung open.

Cho entered first. In a manner of speaking, the room was clear.

Jane was close on his heels and turned to the right to see to the far end of the expansive bedroom. Propped up against the wall was Julia Swale, alias Donna Miller, his former housekeeper. Her throat had been cut ear to ear and her toes were splashed with something red. On the wall was the sign of their killer – a tiger painted in blood and feces. On one side of her was a small pile of human matter; red, wet brains belonging to the fourth victim. On the other, the digestive track of the fifth.

Breathing hard, Jane stepped closer, seeing a note pinned to her chest. He took it in his fingers and handed it to Cho.

Cho yelled down the stairs “Rigsby. Up here!”

Jane stared for a moment at the tiger sign then, suddenly with a flurry of stumbling limbs, he pushed passed Cho out the door and down the hall.

“Where are you going?”

Cho heard running water and in a moment Jane had returned with a bucket.

By this time Rigby had arrived and was in the room, staring at the newest crime scene, not a victim of the killer but the woman Jane insisted was the killer herself. Only none of them thought that anymore.

Cho handed the type-written note to Rigsby.

Jane walked over to where the tiger sign was painted on the white walls, only a few feet from the body. “Jane, what are you doing?” Rigsby asked.

Jane drew back the bucket.

Rigsby and Cho looked at each other, each having the same idea of what Jane was about to do. Cho warned him. “Jane this is a crime scene - you’ll contaminate everything.”

But Jane was ignoring them, intent on knowing once and for all who was behind the string of murders, though he already had a pretty firm idea.

“Jane – don’t!” Rigsby shouted just as Jane launched the water at the mark and then stood back. Before their eyes, the water made contact in a great flood, splashing back water, blood and feces on everything within ten feet, including Cho, Rigsby and Jane.

But it had the intended effect. The water, trickling down the painted drywall, was taking enough of the blood and fecal matter with it to reveal what lay beneath.

The identity of the murderer. A smiling face laughing out at them.

Jane collapsed to the floor.

Cho rushed over to help but Jane had not fainted. He held his head in his hands, and concentrated on breathing in and out. His legs had suddenly turned to jelly. “I’m all right.” He insisted.

Rigsby called for the officers stationed outside the house for a coroner and forensics team. Then, as though waiting for someone to give the go-ahead, Rigsby looked over at Jane, and then at Cho.

Cho asked “What does the note say?”

Rigsby read it aloud:

“”Dear Patrick: As you know, Louise, the woman you knew as Donna, has been my assistant, but of late has made some inexcusable mistakes. It is so disappointing when someone goes beyond what she is told, don’t you think? When she tried to kill you against my wishes, I decided she needed to be dealt with.

And then there’s you, Patrick. You have been asleep it seems. Why must I always wake you up to my work? Even leaving you clues, you slumber on. Look beneath, Patrick, and listen beyond.

Cruelty has a human heart,  
And Jealousy a human face;  
Terror the human form divine,  
And Secrecy the human dress.

Don’t you remember? Isn’t this a fun bit of hunting? I have to go now as I have some reading to do. I can only assume you are awake now. Until we meet again,

Your friend - John.””

-  
C-----------B-------------I  
-

It seemed the only one in the room who was still breathing was Jane, and his shallow and ragged. Cho fantasized what he’d like to do to Red John had the man been in the room with them at that moment. All manner of cruelties even the likes of Red John had not before conjured up. And Jane with a front row seat to enjoy every last one.

“Any word from Lisbon?” Cho asked.

Rigsby shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked over at Patrick nervously. Whispered to Cho “Is he all right?”

Cho suddenly found himself deeply irritated with the question. Who would be? “He has a cracked skull, Rigsby, and there’s a dead woman in his bedroom. So probably not.” He’d managed to keep most of the ill-feeling out of his voice.

Rigsby leaned in, as though closing the last few inches of space between them would somehow muffle his voice; the only sound in the room other than Jane’s still un-even breaths. “Maybe he shouldn’t be in here right now. I mean, wasn’t this where his wife -?”

Cho cut off Rigsby questions, annoyed with the man this time. “It’s his house, Rigsby.” Cho was keeping watch on Jane out of the corner of his eye. Aside from Jane’s breathing and his eyes switching back and forth from the body to Red John’s mark, he seemed okay for now. “Why don’t you check on forensic ETA?” Cho suggested and Rigsby, handing the note to him, went into the hall to make the inquiry.

Jane had settled on a mattress in the corner of the room opposite the brutally murdered body of Julia Swale. Or Donna Miller, or “Louise” - whomever she may have been. As far as they knew, all of them could be wrong.

 

Cho walked over to where Jane sat nursing his head and, undoubtedly, Cho thought, his soul. For a few minutes Cho sat there with him while forensics arrived and began their work. Cho gave the note to them so it could be bagged, then he gestured for them to return it to him. “I’ll log it into evidence later.”

Jane suddenly awakened from his momentary stupor. “I need to see the note.”

Cho held it out to him. Through the bag, the printing was visible. Jane took it, reading it over. Cho could see him saying the words silently. Then Jane whispered something beneath his breath, barely perceptible. And wholly unexpected. “”Listen beyond...don’t you remember?...”Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night”.”

“What?”

Jane wasn’t looking at Cho at all, though he was listening enough to answer him. “Something Red John said to me.” He explained. “In the end, I dismissed it as meaningless; showmanship; insane window dressing.”

But this was brand new information. “You never told us Red John spoke to you.”

“It was nothing.” Jane looked over to where the forensic team was wrapping up the body and removing the brain and fecal matter from the carpet. Plenty of blood was left behind to soak into the fibres. “At least that’s what I thought at the time.”

A decision not without its present regrets, Cho thought. “What else did he say?”

“Among other things, that Kristina is fond of me.”

Why that would stick out in Jane’s mind, Cho didn’t know, but if Kristina was taken by Red John, she was most likely already dead. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

Jane was looking very much haunted and ill, not a healthy combination. Cho sat down beside him on the low mattress. “Jane.” He hated to ask now but Jane’s mind was on the moment and Cho was certain the minute Lisbon arrived she would have Jane packed off back to a hospital bed. “What about this note?” Maybe there was something new in it, something that would give away a detail about Red John they could use to narrow down the suspect list. At present that list was potentially thousands of people long and incorporated a good number of Jane’s former clients.

Jane finally looked over at Cho. All he had to do was turn his head and they were almost eye to eye. “Read it me again, please, slowly. I c-can’t...think.”

Cho did so, not slow as to a child but slow as to a man in shock. When he was finished, it took Jane only a moment to mentally sift through its contents. Jane reached out a hand. “Cho, help me up.”

Cho hoisted him to his feet and held on until Jane stopped swaying. Then Jane walked over to the room’s closet doors and opened them. Cho followed in case Jane fell over again.

The closet was a walk-in and although there were no clothes inside it at all, there were many boxes piled on its shelves. Jane searched with his eyes until he located a cardboard box, ten by twelve by twenty inches in size, the one he was evidently looking for, a red affair with blue stripes and matching lid.

He pointed to it. “That box.” He said, and waited for Cho to take it down for him. Cho was only too glad to oblige since Jane’s complexion was now dead white. Tossing big boxes around would not do in his condition and perhaps Jane himself recognised that.

Jane took it from Cho’s hands. “Thanks.” In his hands he lightly tossed it once. “It’s empty.” His tone meant that it shouldn’t be.

Sitting down once more on the mattress, he lifted the lid. Inside was a silk scarf and nothing else.

Cho saw his friend’s expression change from fear to utter defeat. “The note said he was going to do some reading.” Jane said, explaining the empty box. “These were my wife’s writings and some of Charlotte’s early drawings. And...some of the letters I sent my wife when we were still dating.”

Cho understood. Love letters. Mementos. Red John had taken them. Right now his dirty, bloodied fingers were pawing through the most sacred and treasured memories Jane had of his wife and daughter. It was enough to kill the heart of most and, where they stood, it was the second murder of the evening. Red John was metaphorically slashing Jane right open without even being in the room to take credit. The fucker certainly knew how to hurt where it hurt most.

Cho was glad the forensic team and the other officials had wrapped up their work and were filing out the door. Rigsby entered the room once more and motioned for Cho to speak with him. Cho walked as far as the door and closed it halfway. “What’s up?”

“Still no answer from Lisbon.” Rigsby’s voice had an edge to it. “And she’s not answering her cell. It just goes to voice mail. I’m going to call the office and see if anyone’s heard from her.”

Cho looked back over his shoulder at Jane. “Okay. I’ll be there in a few.”

Rigsby could see Jane sitting by an empty box, staring into it. He looked as off as he ever had. “Is...?”

Cho nodded. “Yeah. We’ll be a minute.”

Cho closed the door and walked back to sit beside Jane. Jane was holding the scarf in a little bunched up ball. Then he put it to his face and cried into it fiercely, but only for a few seconds. Cho resisted the urge to reach out to him, or hold him, or say any of a dozen useless things that would accomplish next to nothing anyway.

As swiftly as it had burst forth, the crisis of tears receded. Jane wiped his eyes, stuffing the scarf into his pants pocket. “What did Rigsby say?”

Cho hated to burden the man with more bad news. “No one can find Teresa.”

Jane looked sharply at him. “Oh my god – in the note, “Isn’t this hunting fun” he said. Present tense. He put Donna in my home and then murdered her here.”

“Julia - or I guess Louise. She was his helper in crime, Jane.”

Jane shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. He had her under my roof for a year, until she was part of my life and then he removed her. Took great pleasure in killing her in fact. Help me up.”

Cho got Jane to his feet and Jane continued. “He’s saying he can get to anyone, kill anyone anywhere in my life.”

“She was put here to spy on you.”

“And to prove he can get to me anywhere, anytime he wants to. He has Lisbon, Cho.” Jane appealed to Cho with his eyes. They were deadly serious and filling with unspoken fear.

In the matter of spying, Cho had a thought of his own. If Red John sent the Donna/Julia/Louise woman to watch Jane, then what else might have been put here to observe him? Cho called the station. “Van Pelt, I need techs at Jane’s house. Tell them it’s for an inch by inch sweep for cameras and bugs.” He paused, then “Why would I be kidding?”

Cho closed his phone and Jane didn’t question it. Louise could have planted dozens of such devices around the house. “Come on.” Cho urged Jane to walk with him, and Jane hobbled along as best he could down to the vehicles where Rigsby was waiting.

Cho asked “Any word?”

Rigsby shook his head.

Cho gestured to the cars. “We have to trace where that cellular call came from.”

Rigsby looked from Cho to Jane and back. “What do you think has happened?”

Cho buckled himself in. “Jane thinks Red John has Lisbon and I’m inclined to agree.”

Rigsby answered his ringing cellular, listening for a few seconds. “Cho. Lisbon’s car was just found; keys, badge and gun still in it, but she’s nowhere to be found.”

-  
C----------------B--------------I  
-

Cho glanced inside the abandoned vehicle, a CBI issue SUV signed out by Teresa Lisbon, their missing boss. Cho turned to Jane who was standing beside him, looking in every which way an ill man in torments. “Do you have any idea at all where Red John would take her?”

Jane wished he did. He shook his head. “He won’t kill her.” He said it with more conviction than he felt.

“How can you be so sure?” Rigsby asked.

“Because if that was his goal, at least this early on, he would have left her body here.”

Cho gestured for them to climb in to his own vehicle, and started the engine. “Let’s go.”  
-  
-  
Teams of local PD scoured the area. No one had seen or heard a thing. The SUV was towed away and after a small heads-together session, it was decided to take up the search early the next morning. Had it been practical to go all night, Cho was certain they would have all done so. But rest and fresh minds were going to be needed if they had any hope of locating Lisbon.

Back at Cho’s apartment, Jane rested on the couch and Cho made soup. Jane had declined tea and Cho wondered if it was some sort of pathetic self punishment.

When the soup was done, Cho brought it to the sofa. Jane picked at it and Cho did much the same. Neither felt much like eating.

“He’ll call.” Jane said.

“What’s he trying to do?” Cho tried not to think of the possibilities.

“Torture us. Make us weak.”

Make you weak. Torture you. We’re just collateral damage. “He’ll call, and then what?”

Jane shook his head slowly over the cooling soup. “I don’t know.” A painful whisper. Clearly Jane was also trying not to think of what Red John had planned for Teresa. “I wish...”

Cho waited but Jane didn’t finish the thought. “What?”

Jane shook his head again. “I don’t know.” And then he was crying again, only this time it didn’t stop-up right off. But Jane did his best to check it anyway, to stifle the emotions he worked so hard at controlling.

Watching him, and momentarily unable to move or offer any sort of comfort, Cho realised it was not all emotions Jane avoided. He’d seen Patrick angry often enough, but never had he seen him weep. It was this kind of emotion, the sort that might suggest weakness that Patrick took pains not to show. Cho guessed that Jane had had his fill of sadness and decided to put it behind him in order to focus on the hunt for the man who had caused its reason for being. Revenge and the desire to kill a specific human being had, up until today, made an effective substitute.

But almost as suddenly as the tears came, again they stopped, and Jane, wiping at his eyes, seemed to begin collapsing into himself. Sitting there with his elbows resting on his knees, his jacket off, his dress shirt damp from the sweat of fear and the salt of his own crying, Jane was right on the cusp of giving in and Cho feared that if he made the decision to throw in the towel now, he’d never take up the fight again. Jane would be done with and Red John could rejoice.

Cho was acting on pure instinct when he took Jane’s face in his hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. And when Jane responded, Cho wasn’t altogether surprised. The stress they had both been put through almost demanded some sort of immediate release, and sex was the best kind Cho could think of. Jane seemed to agree and he allowed Cho’s hand to invade his shirt and then unbuckle his belt.

Cho swiftly, expertly unfastened his own belt and slacks and pushed Jane down on the couch. Still kissing him he freed both their penises and was gratified to feel Jane harden without delay in his hand. Cho was hard and anxious to feel Jane’s body pressing back. He spit into his hand and gathered both their cocks as best he could in one hand while the other clutched at the Jane’s blonde hair and his mouth sucked at Jane’s lips, trying to swallow his tongue.

Cho rubbed both their cocks together in an ever more determined frenzy until they both came hard. Cho almost coming a second time when he heard Jane’s soft, impromptu groan of appreciation.

Cho stayed where he lay, his own sweat gluing him to Jane’s sparsly haired chest. He did not want to move yet. Laying there, listening to Jane’s ragged breathing for as many precious seconds as he thought was prudent, he kissed him on the cheek, tiny taps of his lips then, regretfully, he forced himself to move.

Sitting up, he could not help but watch as Jane come down from his endorphin high, admiring the faint blush to his cheeks, and the enlarged pupils in Robin-egg blue eyes Cho always thought were fucking gorgeous.

As Jane sat up beside him, tucking himself away a little self-consciously, Cho could think of nothing to say but ask “Are you all right?”

Jane managed a tiny smile. It was gorgeous too. “Certainly better than I was a few minutes ago.”

Cho nodded. He was glad but of course the walls were coming down again around his friend, and now one-time lover, and he was afraid the moment would be over too soon. “I’m tired.” Cho said. “I’m going to bed.”

Jane interpreted the statement correctly. Cho wanted him to join him in the bedroom. But Jane, as Cho figured he wouldn’t be, was not ready for that. “I’d like to sleep on the couch.” Jane touched it with his palm, stroking its soft leather absentmindedly, “if you don’t mind?”

Cho shook his head. “No problem.” He stood, trying not to sound disappointed, but the feel of Jane’s body had been too brief, and the room felt cooler. “Goodnight.” He said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Jane nodded, and Cho decided to steal one more kiss before leaving him alone, but Jane turned his lips away at the last second and Cho had to settle for a kiss on his blushing cheek. Jane was embarrassed about his momentary weakness. Cho wondered if perhaps to Jane, just as grief was a weakling, love was also.

Jane nodded. “I’m fine, Cho. It’s...its fine.”

Cho thought he understood, but he decided not to let Jane off the hook that easily. The man had spent far too many years hiding himself away. He touched Jane’s chin with two fingers before relinquishing his right to touch him at all. “Okay.” He went to bed.

Jane threw away his soup, washed the bowls and left them to air dry in Cho’s wooden dish rack. Simple, mindless tasks that gave him a moment to regroup.

Then he lay down on the sofa again, crossed his arms beneath his head, and stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep. He was grateful to Cho for distracting him enough from his own emotions that he was able to think freely, and clearly, for the first time in weeks. Whatever happened in the coming days, Jane was determined that Teresa Lisbon would come home safe. As far as it was dependant on him, she would not die. He would do everything and anything in his power to ensure that she survived.

Anything at all.  
-  
C-----------------B--------------------I

 

Red Matter – Part 4

 

Deal with the Devil if the Devil has a constituency - and don't complain about the heat.  
C. J. Cherryh

 

-  
C--------------B-------------------I  
-

“Oh my god.” Van Pelt whispered.

Rigsby looked up from his own computer screen. “What’s up?”

“Wayne, come look at this.” Van Pelt, already a fair-skinned red head, had paled considerably.

Rigsby moved to sit on the corner of her desk, trying to see what she was seeing. “What am I looking at?”

“I should have spotted this earlier – god – I’m so stupid!”

Rigsby frowned and looked closer. “What?”

“All the victims – their initials, they’re all the same, or almost the same.”

As an investigator, Rigsby’s mild curiosity turned instantly serious. “How so?”

Van Pelt looked like she was about to throw something. Rigsby knew she wouldn’t, but whatever was upsetting her, it was pretty big. She pointed at the list of names on her screen. “I was alphabetising the victims for the case file and look, their initials are all either P.J or J.P – except this one.”

Rigsby read it for himself. “John Pappionus, Philip Jesus, Pieter Adrian Johanssen, Jeremy Physer...” Rigsby stopped. “Jesus.” He felt as much of an idiot. “Don’t feel bad, I didn’t spot it either.” They had all had access to the case files, and no one had spotted it. Not even Jane.

Van Pelt picked up her phone and dialled.

“Who are you calling?”

“The family of this other one that doesn’t match.” It rang a few times before someone answered. “Hello? Mrs Pollock? This is agent Van Pelt with the CBI – yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I just need to know, for my records, was your husband’s first name Reid?” The answer made Van Pelt look up at Rigsby and she shook her head no. “I see. So he preferred to go by his middle name? Even on legal documents? I understand, thank you Mrs. Pollock. Thanks for your help.”

Rigsby waited for Van Pelt to hang up. She looked up at him. “His full name was Jacobi Reid Pollock. He hated Jacobi, so he went by Reid from the time he was fourteen.”

Rigsby understood. “So Jacobi – J.”

Van Pelt nodded. “J.P, just like the others, Rigsby, Patrick Jane, Jane Patrick. Red John was targeting Jane all along, right from the first murder. If we had seen this earlier –“

“It would have changed next to nothing, Grace. We couldn’t have protected everyone in Sacramento with those initials.”

“But it might have saved Jane from nearly having his skull bashed in. We could have put him in a safe house or something.”

True, but their six victims would still probably be dead and the case no further ahead and likely as not Lisbon would still be missing. Hindsight was an unforgiving bitch, is which is why he tried to ignore her.

Cho returned from his meeting with director Bertram. Jane had arrived earlier, secluding himself in the office kitchen, drinking strong key and reading through, for the forty-seventh time, the extensive file on Red John.

Rigsby filled Cho in on the name correlations.

Cho wished one of them had spotted it earlier, but there was no reason now to chastise anyone. None of them had seen it. “Have you told Jane about this yet?”

Van Pelt looked toward the kitchen. “No.”

“Then don’t. Right now it’s not a priority and we’ve got enough on the table.”

Honestly, Van Pelt wasn’t too eager to let Jane in on it anyway, he was an exacting thinker and such an oversight might bring his sharp wit down on her. Changing the subject, “How did your meeting go with Bertram?”

“Apparently I’ve been put in charge until Lisbon returns.” Cho deliberately made it sound as though his tenure as boss was strictly temporary. Lisbon was going to return. Everything was going to be all right.

Van Pelt answered her ringing phone. She listened for as moment and wrote something down. “Okay, thanks.” She hung up and tore off a page from her note pad, handing it to Cho. “The cell’s been traced to a Mrs. L Robertson of Oakland. This is her address and home number.”

Cho tucked it in his pocket. “Get a car, we’ll meet you down stairs” He told Rigsby. “As for the name-thing,” He said to Van Pelt, “Tuck it away for now and stay by the phones in case Red John calls us. I’ll grab Jane.”

Ducking his head in the kitchen. “Come on, we have a lead on the phone call.”

Jane said without looking up. “It’s a dead-end.”

Cho thought as much but - “Doesn’t hurt to try, does it?”

Jane lifted his head from his reading. Looking at the piles of forms surrounding him, he said ruefully “So much paper, so little useful information.” But he followed Cho.

C-B-I

The phone call was, as it turned out, a dead end as Jane had predicted. The woman who answered her door claimed a man had borrowed her phone to make a call to his sister.

Why was she at the police station? Why, to protest a parking ticket. It’s nothing but a cash grab, anyway, and how can a woman of limited means expect to pay the outrageous parking costs? What? No, she had not clearly seen the man’s face, as it was bright outside and she had just come inside. Besides he was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. She thought he might have been a brunette, but his hair was very short and she couldn’t be sure. Yes, she remembered his clothes: dark grey pants, pin striped shirt, navy windbreaker.

Cho was already discouraged. “What about his shoes, or any distinguishing marks?”

The pleasant middle aged mother of two sat on a plush red couch, her be-ringed fingers wrapped around a coffee mug. In the background, Jane wandered around the living room, looking at family photos and knick-knacks. Cho knew it was Jane’s way of subtly getting to know the dynamics of a household, to corroborate facts, and also to provide him with some ammo’ to expose any possible fibs, should any come to light.

“Well, I think his shoes might have been cowboy boots, but I couldn’t be positive. And I didn’t really see his face very well, so I don’t remember any scars or anything.”

Behind them Jane snorted.

The lady turned to face him. “What was that?”

Jane did not look at her. “Bright, sunny day - oh you went inside but they have bright florescent lights inside. You’re telling us that he’s looking right at you and you can’t recall a single thing about his face? That’s a bit difficult to accept.”

“The sun was in my eyes, and when I came in, my eyes hadn’t adjusted yet.” She insisted, then appealed to Cho who to her came across as far less pompous. “I’m not lying.”

Cho soothed her with a few well places noises. “Mrs Robertson, what about the man’s voice?”

“Oh - that I remember. High pitched. Nasal-y. Like the type of voice you’d expect from a librarian or something, or maybe a shoe salesman. You know - the weird, geeky type.” She looked straight at Jane, who smiled indulgently at the backhanded insult.

Cho nodded, taking short, specific notes on a pad of paper.

Rigsby had the phone tucked in a plastic evidence bag. “We will need to take the phone with us for now, and run the called numbers.”

“Really?” She said. “H-how long? My whole week’s schedule is on that phone.”

Cho stood up. “We’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.”

Back in the car. “A bust.” Rigsby said.

From the back seat “Told you.” Jane commented lightly. He was reading a weekly gossip rag.

Rigsby was tired of walking on eggshells around Jane as Cho was tended to do of late. He turned his head half way around and snapped “You got any better ideas?”

Jane folded the trashy magazine and thought for a moment. “Yes. Instead of trying to find John, we let him find us, or rather more specifically, me.”

Cho didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, specifically?”

“I mean I take an ad out in the personals, offering myself in exchange for Teresa. Red John reads it, calls us up, makes his demands and bingo - he finds us. And in consequence, we find him – well, I do.”

Cho swallowed. “You want to go to him? Just like that? So he can kill you instead of Lisbon? What makes you think he won’t kill you both?”

Jane knew Cho suspected the answer already. “Red John doesn’t want Lisbon, Cho, we both understand that. He just wants to torture me, and better he gets to do it up close and personal is my guess.”

“Then why take her?” Rigsby asked. “Why not just take you to begin with?”

“Well, I haven’t been alone much these days.”

Cho glanced in the rear view mirror at Jane, who was looking right back at him.

“Besides, it’s more fun for him this way.” Jane continued. “He gets to make us all crazy, scare the bejezuz out of Lisbon and force my hand. He’s just playing us; why not give him what he wants?”

Cho was liking this line of reasoning less and less. “Because it means you’re a dead man.”

 

This time he did not meet Cho’s eyes in the mirror. “Come on, Cho, we all knew that anyway.” Jane said with perfect calm. “Didn’t we?”

Jane called up the local periodicals and recited to them.

“Dear Tiger, I am anxious to make your acquaintance and I’m sure some reasonable arrangements can be made. Call me ASAP. Ever yours, PJ.”

He hung up. “It’ll run tomorrow in all the locals.” He said to the team, short one member.

Cho was avoiding standing anywhere near Jane and Jane did not fail to notice it. He understood why but it could not be helped. Red John was within his grasp, or he within his. Either way, he was soon to meet his nemesis face to face once more. This time if there was a Justice Being in charge anywhere, Red John was going to die. This was no time to think of romance.

When the phone call came through on Jane’s cellular the following day at ten-thirty in the morning, Cho’s heart sank. Did he want Lisbon home safe? Absolutely. Did he want Jane to sacrifice his life to bring her back? An unequivocal no. But Jane was determined if (Cho was convinced), not altogether rational about it.

“You’re walking into a death trap. You know that don’t you?” While a barefoot Jane stood patiently in the office’s men’s washroom, Cho was taping a wire to his chest while Van Pelt and Rigsby were tucking tiny microphones in Jane’s shed jacket and shoes. Pockets, collars, heels, socks and shoe laces all received their micro’ listening devices. As well a tracking device had been concealed within the workings of Jane’s cell phone.

Cho was looking at Jane, right in the eye, with a mixture of anger, sorrow and grudging admiration. “Why are you so willing to die?”

Jane accepted Cho’s question without malice. “I don’t want to die, but I’m ready to if need be.”

Stomach dropping in fear. “You sound almost glad.”

Jane looked back at Cho, his eyes kind but unwilling to budge. “Red John needs to die, Cho. I’ll do anything necessary to make that happen.”

Cho shook his head a little. “I don’t believe you.”

Jane never looked away for a second when he said it. “I’d turn all of us over to him if it would guarantee his death.”

Cho stared back, and then dropped his eyes to the task at hand. “Liar. If that were true, you wouldn’t be so worried about Lisbon.”

“I’m just going with what’s been presented to us.” Jane sounded as serious as he did sorry. “Red John will never stop killing, Cho. He’ll never stop killing and that means someone has to stop him. I want that someone to be me.”

“It’s a little late for revenge.” It was a slight he had not meant to say aloud. Jane might have been able to save his wife and daughter had he not been so determined to go on television that night and denounce the killer he had claimed to study and know so well.

Jane looked away and Cho kicked himself for letting his anger through so bluntly. “This isn’t going to bring them back.”

Jane met dark, troubled eyes with his gentle, forgiving blues. “No, but it’ll feel good.”

Was it that Jane had not allowed himself to properly feel, like other people felt from day to day, since that night? Maybe. “If you find a way to help Lisbon and yourself escape, are you telling me you won’t take it if it meant Red John would go free?”

“No, I’m saying, one way or another, either me or Red John is going to be dead once this is over, but if it means anything, I hope it isn’t me.”

Cho nodded. That would have to do. It was time to go.

 

C--B--I

 

However much Cho hated letting Jane go into a potentially lethal situation alone, he was allowing it. In reality, they had little choice. But what he refused to compromise on was staying behind while Rigsby drove Jane to the drop-off point.

“Where am I dropping you?” Rigsby, behind the wheel, asked.

Cho was in the passenger seat and had not spoken a word since they left the station. Jane was seated in the rear, looking remarkably calm and watching the world go by.

Rigsby kept glancing in the rear view mirror, wondering if Jane wasn’t completely right in the head. They had all harboured suspicions from day one. He was just too content to be a man on his way to his execution.

“His instructions were that a black cab would pull in front of us – there it is now.” Jane said.

Seeing it, Cho’s stomach dropped a foot. “Remember to keep your cell phone on at all times.”

Jane answered levelly. “I promise.” He would play along and cooperate with protocol; the standard tracking devices on his person couldn’t do any harm at any rate. Besides, it made Cho and the others feel better about letting him go.

The cab flashed its four-way lights and pulled over. It was a busy downtown street. Rigsby pulled in behind it. “Do you think Red John’s in it?”

“Of course he isn’t.” Jane gently admonished. “Red John may be a psychopathic killer but he’s not a moron.”

Jane opened the door and Cho turned to look back. “Jane-“

Jane paused, the door open and one foot on the ground, his good foot.

Cho bit back everything but “Good luck.”

Jane nodded. “Thanks.” Taking his cane, he limped to the cab and opened the back door, climbing in.

Jane looked behind him. Cho and Rigsby had not driven away. They were still watching.

The cab driver asked “Where to?”

Jane looked at his cellular. “I’ll know in a minute.”

It rang and he answered. He spoke into the tiny device. “Yes?”

“Do you know who I am?”

Jane had spent hours steeling himself, believing he was ready to hear that voice again, the high-pitched, confident, arrogant squeak of Red John, but just the same, it made him feel cold all over. Working to also keep the tone of his voice level and unafraid “Yes.”

“Roll down your right passenger window.”

The windows were automatic and Jane did so. Someone walked quickly by, tossing in a plastic bag and almost hitting him on the side of his head.

“Close the window, and ask the driver to lock them and all the doors, then raise the partition and start driving.”

“What if he won’t?”

Anger now and impatience. “Talk him into it.” Jane heard two or three deep breaths through the tiny speaker. “You’re a man of insight, Jane, pay the man ahead of time and don’t be stingy with the tip.”

Jane pulled out seven twenties from his wallet, all he had on him, and slipped it through the money slot, then made the requests and, other than a puzzled frown, the driver complied. Jane heard the electric locks set and the clear plastic partition appear out of the slot in the drivers’ bench seat. It rose until it met the roof, effectively sealing him in.

“Tell the cab driver to go west, then hang up and call your friends in the car a block back to stop following you or I will kill Teresa before you arrive.”

Jane hesitated before answering, never a good procedure with a crazy man.

“Jane,” He said softly, “You know I’ll do it.”

Jane heard the eager delight screaming from Red John’s simple, quiet words. Yes, he would do it. No question at all. Jane called Rigsby and told him back off, repeating Red John’s threat to them. Soon the black government-issue SUV dropped out of sight.

Red John dialled back right away and when Jane opened the phone “Good.” Red John said. “Now strip off your clothes – all of them, your watch and shoes as well, and that silly wire. Ask the driver to open only your window and throw your things out, the cane too. And then get changed into the clothes I sent you.”

Jane complied. So much for the wires and bugs, and for Cho or Rigsby listening in. Jane explained his colleagues’ actions. “You know they had to try.”

“Yes.”

Red John was silent for a few seconds. “That’s better.” He said, as Jane was pulling a loose fitting white tee-shirt over his head and slipping on a pair of grey sweat pants. It was then Jane noticed the camera, not standard in all taxi cabs yet, but the better companies had them. This one, though, was not pointed in an oblique angle, toward the driver in front and his fare behind, it was not here for the driver’s security this time. It was pointed directly back at Jane.

Jane had expected the divesting of clothing but not a direct window from Red John to him. “Nice touch.” He said.

“Thank you. You’re an attractive man, Patrick.”

An unexpected revulsion and it made Jane’s skin crawl. “What now?” Scary question.

“Tell the driver to get on the highway and drive west. Now you throw your cellular out the window and use the one I have provided.”

And that would the last link between him and the team. Jane did as he was told and fished around the bottom of the bag, pulling out a throw-away, pre-paid cellular.

Red John dialled Jane on the new phone and when Jane opened it, for a moment Red John said nothing.

“I asked-“

“I heard you. Be quiet.”

Jane tried to still his stomach, but he was queasy. And his head hurt. It had not occurred to him to bring his pain pills. Jane recalled, however, that it would have been pointless anyway, as all of his belongings were now county property and lying at the side of the highway.

They drove for a further twenty minutes before Red John spoke again. “Do you see that car up ahead?”

Jane looked through the front windshield. Speaking into the phone “Yes.”

“Tell the driver to pull in behind it. You have reached your destination.”

The cab stopped and a petite woman dressed for Sunday brunch got out of the car ahead of them. It was a blue sedan with rust on the fenders. Ordinary. The lady, wearing a floppy hat with sunflowers on it, approached the cab and smiled sweetly at the driver. Then she opened Jane’s door and stretched out her hand to him. “Mister Jane,” She said in a silky southern drawl, “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. Please come with me.”

Jane, in a slight daze, stepped from the car onto highway asphalt and in bare feet getting cut from the shoulder gravel, walked to the car ahead. She opened the rear door for him.

Jane hesitated. He had expected violence, shoving and pushing. This genteel female in the summer hat was almost surreal.

She smiled again. “Why Patrick, you know he will slit Teresa’s throat right now if you don’t comply.” The end of the lady’s last word was pitched higher in a broken tone, a sing-song effect.

Jane got in the car and settled in for another ride. The woman handed him a bottle of water. Jane noticed the seal had already been broken. “Red John wishes you to drink this.” She explained.

Drugged water. Jane thought something like this might occur. Or was it poison? He didn’t think so. As he had said all along, if Red John had wanted him dead, he could have killed him a dozen times. Jane drank the entire contents.

His eyes began to tire and his tongue grew fuzzy things on it, making speech difficult. The woman smiled benevolently down at him. “There now, isn’t that better? Your head must have been hurting an awful lot, poor thing.”

Jane wanted to warn her, though he knew it would do little good. “Intha’, inth’ end he...he’ll jus’ killyu-u-u” Words would not separate and his tongue refused to properly assist.

She patted his limp forearm. “Now, now, Mister Jane, you have a nice nap and the trip will go by in no time.” She closed the door, and Jane heard the lock click in place.

His polite kidnapper took her place behind the wheel and drove on.

The last thing Jane heard was a great explosion and before passing out he managed to turn and look behind him just once. The taxi cab he had arrived it disappeared in a fire-y, white ball. He could feel the heat through the rear windshield.

 

C—B—I

 

Cho slammed his fists on the hood of the SUV. He nodded to the state patrolman who had shown Cho the discarded clothing of Patrick Jane. “Another mile up the highway,” The officer explained “we found this.” In a clear plastic evidence bag, a cellular phone was in pieces.

Rigsby nodded. “Looks like Jane’s.”

Their links to Jane, and so Teresa, were severed.

Rigsby asked Cho. “What the hell are we going to do?”

Cho shook his head, hating to think what Red John was going to do. “I don’t know.” He hated to be defeated so early in the game, and then reminded himself that it was anything but a game. If only Jane were there. He would think up some hare-brained notion and as crazy as it sounded, it would probably work. Cho accepted that although he was a fairly intelligent man, he did not possess the creativity Jane wielded at every turn of the investigative cards.  
Against the team’s protests, Bertram had helicopters out looking for the sedan, arguing than one dead agent was better than two, but so far nothing had turned up.

“Sorry. I got nothing.” Cho said.

Rigsby looked at his shoes, then down the road, then at Cho. He suspected Cho was taking the sudden lack of Jane  
harder than any of them. He had a small inkling why. “Me neither.”

 

Cho looked down the highway where the road curved, disappearing into tree-covered surrounding hills. “For the time being, they’re on their own.”

C—B—I

When Jane awoke, he was being fastened to an upright chair. Heavy wooden legs and a thickly cushioned seat reminded him of the office chairs at the station.

But the heavy ropes binding his feet at the legs and his hands tied tightly behind him spoke otherwise. He shivered. Opening sleep crusted eyes, the first sight to greet him was Lisbon similarly trussed up in a chair twenty feet opposite his. She was against a wall, gagged and bound but thankfully appeared otherwise unharmed.

Jane glanced down at himself. He was naked from the waste up, wearing only the grey sweat pants Red John had provided. His feet were bare on the hard wood floor. Looking around the large room that was empty of any furniture except for the chairs he and Lisbon occupied, he could see no distinguishing architecture or pictures. Except for their combined breathing, the room was a blank.

Jane was surprised to find he had no gag and gathered groggy thoughts together enough to speak. “Are you all right?”

Lisbon could make no reply other than a nod.

Jane took a deep breath. “You’ll be okay.” He assured her; almost positive Red John would let her go.

Somewhere behind him a door opened. Boots, like the ones that night two years ago, walked across the floor. Solid confidant steps toward the chair where Jane sat bound and immobile.

Then the voice he had grown to loath spoke. “Patrick. You are a hard man to get hold of. Forcing me to take your pretty friend here just to get you to see me was very rude.”

Red John starting out like this, with blame and accusation, spoke volumes to Jane. Red John was not pleased. Stepping around to the front, so Jane could see him full on, was also probably bad. Red John had worn his mask of course, but he also carried his knife. It gleamed from the ceiling lights, a veiled threat.

Jane did not know exactly how to start this negotiation. He would probably die here, so trading himself for Lisbon wasn’t going to work. Red John already had the people he had set out to take, and Jane had no illusions of being able to somehow escape his bonds and take Red John out before he could react with his knives.

Best to begin simply. “What do you want?”

Red John stared down at him. “What I always want, Patrick – you.”

“Here I am.”

“Yes. Here you are.”

“You’ll let her go?”

Red John turned to look at her. “In time, but I have a gift to give her first, and one for you as well. I have thought a lot about what sort of gifts to present, and I think I have found just the right ones.”

Really not good at all. “Why do you play these games? If you’re going to kill me, then just kill me.”

Red John reacted as a dandy insulted. “Kill you? Kill you?” He walked away, moving in the background, opening up what sounded like a pot-bellied stove, stoking logs or coals. The heat warmed Jane’s skin and chased some of the chill away.

So the room was not totally empty, just from his point of view. Lisbon could see things he could not. And he could see, only Lisbon. Jane instincts told him that had to mean something - something to Red John’s advantage.

He was back. “I have no intention of killing you, Patrick. I brought you here as I said to give you a gift.”

His hands were beginning to hurt from the ropes and his fingers were numbing from the lack of circulation. “Cut out the psycho bullshit. What gift and in exchange for what?” Murdering freaks did nothing out of the goodness of their ice-cube hearts.

Red John waved his knife around. “You will see it soon enough. You will not be able to keep your eyes off it, and neither will anyone else.”

More freak-talk.

“And my gift to Teresa is one she will never be able to forget. I am nothing if not generous.”

Red John and his notes and fucking poetry. If he was to die here, Jane decided he was damn well going to tell Red John exactly what he thought of him.

“You’re insane, you always have been, and you always will be. You and your poems and smiley faces and masks.” Jane smiled, a desperately hateful grin fuelled by the pictures of his slaughtered family rolling over and over in endless loops in his mind. “You’re not impressive, you’re not a genius - you’re not even creative. This pathetic attempt to immortalise yourself in infamy is a joke. You’re a hack, Red John. You’re nothing but a coward!”

Red John stopped and crouched in front of Jane, who was breathing hard after his tirade. “I’ve brought you here, Patrick, because you have lost respect for me and I can’t have that, not from my favourite hobby.”

Red John paced the room behind Jane and began to speak in a conversational tone, as though he were discussing the weather or the political news of the day. “If I am as you say a coward and hack and nothing, then you share my humiliation for you are one half of what I have become. I see some irony in that, Patrick, where you have spent eight years of your life chasing this pathetic-nothing-coward.

“Sadly, we both know why, don’t we? Because I sliced your daughters little throat wide open and watched her bleed out all over your bedroom carpet, making her mother watch. Then I did the mother much the same way.” With a thick sound of regret “Poor Patrick, the cleaning bill must have been outrageous.”

Jane sucked in air at Red John’s stark, emotionless recitation of the execution of his baby girl and wife. It was getting harder to keep control. This is what Red John was after; to humiliate, wound, break down all defences, and finally take control. It was classic master/victim brain washing. It was Stockholm syndrome and Koresh charisma all at once. Become both the tormentor and the comforter. Render punishment and then apply balm, again and again until the person was convinced it was being done for their ultimate good and besides - didn’t he love them deeply?

“Fuck you.” Jane did not normally swear but everyday words of respect and reason had no place in a bloodthirsty psychotic’s vision of the world.

“Patrick, I am only being honest.’ He sighed. “Never mind that now. You want to know what your gift is?”

Red John was suddenly in front of Jane’s face, nose to mask, speaking whispered words only they could hear. “It’s simple. My gift is me. I am yours and you are mine.”

Then Red John’s black-gloved hand was on Jane’s stomach, rubbing the flesh in tender circles, nearly making Jane gag. “You are attractive, Jane, I look forward to getting to know you more...intimately.” Under his invading hand, Jane did not exist, only Jane’s body.

 

Red John turned his head to where Lisbon sat, watching with frightened eyes. “And won’t Teresa enjoy the show as well? Her gift, you see.”

C—B—I

“What about the housekeeper?” Cho asked the team, now two members short. He sat at his own desk, Lisbon’s office just seemed the wrong venue for discussing her and Jane’s kidnapping. Besides he did all his best thinking in here.

Van Pelt read from her own note pad. “Her real name was Louise LeSeurr – and that name is for sure. She worked at a business called Home-Maids part-time. It’s sort of a temp agency for home janitorial services. People can submit a resume’ and request days, hours, neighbourhoods, even streets. They deliver mailbox leaflets in Jane’s and nearby neighbourhoods about every two months. Jane was sure to have seen the ad at one point.

“As for Louise LeSeurr, she temp’ed for them for over three and a half years before she was assigned to Jane’s house as a Wednesday regular. Single, no family, lived alone in a one bedroom apartment. Four cats. And, by the way, the blood recovered from the bottom of the thermos matched at least two of the victims as well as our Jane.”

None of it took them by surprise. Our Jane. “Typical Red John recruit; loner, no family, few friends, probably a bit odd.” Cho affirmed.

Rigsby said without thinking “Pretty well describes Jane, too.” He looked at his colleagues, his eyes apologetic. “Sorry, bad timing - but” he quickly added, redeeming himself, “Nine micro cameras and eleven listening devices were found and removed from Jane’s home. There’d been place all over the house from the garage to the bathrooms. Looks like Red John has been keeping a close watch on him for at least a year. Ever since Jane hired Do - er - Louise.”

Cho thought he might keep that bit of information from Jane for the present, provided he ever saw him again. But it was disturbing enough to find out your housekeeper courtesy Red John had been spying on you, even worse to learn that also your walls and toilet had been.

“Did Jane request her specifically or did the company send her over? She could not have been a random choice.” Cho pointed out.

Van Pelt answered. “The Home-Maids manager said Jane had sent an email request to them for regular Wednesday service. The requested work hours and days of potential clients are sent to all the temps work emails. Louise offered to fill that order.”

Rigsby asked. “So she was able to hone in on Jane by name?”

 

Van Pelt shook her head no. “Only the potential client’s address and the requested hours of employment are sent to the temps, and it’s up to them to decide if the hours and area fit in with their work needs.”

“So she knew Jane’s address ahead of time, meaning Red John gave it to her. What about the other housemaids?”

Van Pelt shook her head. “The communication with the workers and office is almost all via phone and email. Even the pay checks are direct deposit. No one knew her very well, even after three years. The only yearly company function is an in-office Christmas party and if Louise attended any of them, no one remembers. There was no correspondence at her house to indicate even a pen pal, she used throw-away phones and did not own a computer.” Van Pelt tucked away the useless notes. “Sorry, boss, pretty much zilch.”

Cho shook his head. How was it possible that, time after time, Red John seemed to effortlessly locate and use these easily manipulated people? Effectively there could be only one method; extensive planning and eternal patience. “What about the taxi cab and the car?”

Rigsby had flipped the page on his notes and was ready for the question. “The taxi driver, George,” Rigsby sounded the last name out for them, “Til-ziz-o-glay, as far as we or the company dispatchers can tell, had no idea what was going on, other than he had a bit of a weird fare in Jane. Not that we could interview George to be certain he was in the dark.”

Cho nodded his head once in agreement. No. No interviews when you’re as crispy as an oven-baked cracker.

Rigsby finished. “Family man, two kids, married twenty years, active Union member, lots of bowling buddies. Not a typical Red John wannabe.”

“And the sedan?” Cho asked.

“There was no one to mark the plate and the helicopters Bertram had sent out didn’t manage to locate either the cab or the sedan in time to get even a description of the driver of the car. Dead end.”

“Seems like there’s some luck happening on the side of Red John.” Rigsby observed.

“What do you have to do to get that kind of luck?” Van Pelt mused. Red John had managed to escape detection for nearly a decade after showing his hand over and over.

“There has to be something we’ve overlooked.” Van Pelt said.

“Well, the call that came into Teresa’s cellular from Robertson’s phone was triangulated to a police station but that just means someone was standing inside the building when the call was made. The camera footage of the entrance for that whole day was requested by this office. Once Tech has processed it, they’ll send it over.” Rigsby explained.

Cho said. “We know, or at least we think we know, that Red John and his accomplices possess the ability to move easily in and around investigations and law enforcement, that means he and his recruits are comfortable around us. They blend in; no one notices them - probably someone in uniform.”

Rigsby nodded. “Or someone maybe not the police but that you’d expect to see on a regular basis. This ground has been covered before by others, and by Bosco’s team.”

“True.” Cho agreed but he refused to drop the idea. Red John and his accomplices somehow, every time, hid in plain sight. “Bosco’s team did so, but we haven’t. How about we try making a new list not of suspects but the most likely type of suspect? Electrical workers, delivery people, janitors, forensic personnel, parking lot attendants – anyone who has had access to this building from now back four years at least. Somewhere and with someone, there has to be some over-lap.”

Van Pelt argued the point. “Bosco’s team tried that, too, but not stretching back past two years - the list was ten miles long. And whenever Red John is active, camera footage from these offices is scrutinized – no one unusual has ever been seen on it.”

“That’s not entirely correct.” Cho reminded her. “Red John’s accomplices were seen and never suspected because we trusted them before we knew better, like Bosco trusted Rebecca and, if you’ll excuse me Grace, like we all trusted your one-time fiancé - O'Laughlin.”

Cho was not out to hurt her by the reminder but they all needed reminding that Red John seemed to have eyes everywhere and they had always been left with flailing limbs not one, but three steps behind him. Cho explained his idea. “I was thinking more along the lines of someone like O’Laughlin and Rebecca, someone that is seen here every day or almost. A person we see regularly.”

Van Pelt asked. “But how do we investigate all of our coworkers? And where do we focus our eyes – all of us have to pass a yearly security check.”

Cho wasn’t certain. “How about someone who was more present for all the investigations into Red John? The more relevant murders would most likely be those involving Jane.”

“You mean anyone who works within law enforcement.” Rigsby added. “Look into people we’ve trusted for a long time?”

Van Pelt added pointedly. “People we know and see every day.”

“Not necessarily only those we see, because we are not everywhere all the time,” Cho corrected, “but someone who’s presence at a crime scene or investigation we would never question.”

Still a potentially huge list of people to go through and consider one by one, and that was after the list was compiled of course, which could take many days of records searches and discreet phone calls.

“This is going to take days.” Van Pelt said.

Cho understood her meaning. Lisbon or Jane could be dead in less time. “I know it’s a long shot but while we’re waiting for the station footage...” He spread his hands. “May as well keep busy.” It was the only thing keeping him together.

Rigsby crossed his arms. “Ho-boy, is Bertram not going to be happy.”

Cho didn’t care. “I’ll handle Bertram.”

Van Pelt looked at Rigsby, eager to work but not hopeful about their success. “We’re on it.”

In the meantime, Cho had some reading to get through. He returned to Lisbon’s office, closing the door behind him. On his desk was the Red John file box.

Since the kidnappings, it had occurred to Cho that, despite three years off and on working the case alongside Jane and the team, he had never read through every single piece of evidence on it. An oversight he was determined to rectify now.

Cho began emptying the box out onto Lisbon’s desk. There were dozens of reports regarding multiple crime scenes, evaluations of victims, official psychiatric observations about Red John himself, some photo’s of Red John’s smiley face “signature” that was in a folder entitled - laughably - “Evidence”, and of course, the attack on Jane’s family all those years ago that had been the springboard for Jane’s part in the hunt.

All that and three years searching for the killer and Cho had never once opened the box to look inside. He had always been too busy, and besides until now the Red John case had been Jane’s little obsession, not the team’s.  
But since Jane had become someone him more to him than a colleague, Red John had taken on brand new importance and meaning. Most especially since Jane was now in Red John’s clutches along with Lisbon. Unexpectedly and horrifically, Jane’s “Red John thing” had become front and center to them all.

Cho flipped open the earliest crime report and began to read.

C—B—I

Jane spent a miserable night in the chair, bobbing in and out of sleep. By the next morning he had to go to the bathroom so badly he was trying not to breath too deeply lest the air in his lungs caused his bladder extra stress.

Lisbon was asleep, her head to her chest. She looked even worse for wear, as she had spent two nights strapped to her chair. Red John had not had the decency to allow her the use of even a pee bucket, and her jeans were stained with urine. A person can only hold it in so long.

Jane was himself about ready to burst and decided to risk Red John’s wrath. “Hey! We need to pee in here!” He called out. “Come on, Red, or you’re going to have some serious laundry to do.”

He yelled until he was hoarse before Red John’s flowery attired assistant made an appearance. “Stop yelling, stop yelling.’ She insisted. “You’ll wake the devil.”

“Too late.” Muttered Jane.

She brought two water bottles and opening the first one, held one to Jane’s lips. He drank the whole thing. The lady in the dress woke Lisbon and did the same for her. Lisbon looked immediately better and Jane was relieved to see it. Lisbon had been looking dangerously exhausted.

“Where’s Red John?”

“Busy.” She answered pleasantly, her eyes soft and serene, like she was caring for her own dear grandchildren.

Jane saw it right away. “You’ve been hypnotised.” Her pupils were dilated. “And drugged.”

Dress-Lady did not pause in her steps back toward the door. “Nonsense. Now you sit tight and Red John will join you shortly.”

When he did, he had changed from his long leather coat and ugly mask to an outfit reminiscent of the style of Kim Jong-Il - and a slightly less ugly mask. It was a George Bush affair and covered everything but his eyes. Behind the stoniness of mask, they appeared lidless and lifeless.

He approached Jane straight away. “Hello Patrick. My lovely assistant, Cloe –“

Jane chuckled rudely. “”Assistant”. Yeah, okay.”

Red John continued as though Jane had not spoken at all. “She shall assist you in a washroom trip.”

“Good because I can’t feel my hands.”

Red John pulled out a syringe. “But first.” Red John bent over just far enough to jab the needle into Jane’s upper right arm. As the drug began to work, taking away Jane’s senses, Red John added “We can’t have you attempting an escape can we?”

And before the lights went out the final word from Red John echoed down the narrowing tube of consciousness to Jane’s mind, leaving a monster there to strike at him during his next nightmare. “Besides, I want you clean for me.”

C—B—I

Cho closed the fourth file and rubbed his eyes. Most of what he was reading was background stuff and the cold investigative facts of Red John’s earlier murders. Red John hadn’t developed his smiley-face crime signature until at least three years later, after what was believed to be his first recognizable Red John kill. The moniker had been established by a story-hungry press a year before that.

Including Bosco’s team and Bosco, Jane’s family, and his own accomplices, Red John had completed thirty-five known murders. Almost twelve hours has elapsed since they had lost track of Jane’s taxi. Lisbon had been taken an estimated eleven hours prior to that. A full day of brain work already and nothing to show for it. Cho hoped, if they did their jobs right, Red John’s tally would not become thirty-seven.

For the fifth time, Cho picked up the desk phone and called Technical Processing to see if the station footage where the phone call had come from was ready.

Van Pelt woke him up at his desk the next morning with a large take-out coffee. “Boss? You awake?”

Cho lifted his head, quickly shaking out the cobwebs. He ran a hand down his face. He needed a shower. “Yeah, I’m awake. What’s up?”

“Footage came in.”

Cho joined them around Van Pelt’s computer screen. Grainy images from the station in question rolled by, showing people entering and leaving. At one point a crowd of people entered.

“Field trip.” Rigsby pointed out the obvious.

The children were accompanied by several adults, evidently the field trip counsellors.

“Hey, look.” Van Pelt said. “That’s got to be him.”

One man had entered among the crowd of children. Not a large figure but he turned to the camera and waved. He was on a cell phone. Van Pelt said “The time when this guy was talking corresponds with the time Lisbon received the call on her cell’.”

Mrs. Robertson stood nearby, waiting for her phone to be returned to her. “Robertson’s story obviously checks out.” Cho was none-the-less disappointed. “He’s wearing dark clothes, a baseball hat and sunglasses. Hardly a suspect we can trace.”

Rigsby said. “Let’s see the parking lot footage.”

It wasn’t much better. The tape showed the school bus arriving and the children disembarking toward the police station. Their suspect walked out from behind a newer parked van and fell in behind them. “The van was checked out but it was a common model and make and there’s no trace of it now. No plate was caught on tape either.”

“He knew exactly where to park the van to avoid the cameras.” Cho commented. Time, planning and patience, Red John’s secondary signature.

“This had to be another accomplice. If Red John needed to keep himself available to take Lisbon, he could hardly be in three places at once.” Rigsby said.

Red John hid in plain sight yet at the same time managed to lose himself in the crowd. He was obsessed with Jane and with killing but seemed to have no present desire to kill Jane. Red John seemed to both love and loath the press, and killed for sport, or revenge, or blood lust, or for some reason they did not yet understand. His killing seemed to follow no personal lusts other than violence. Never had any of the bodies he had left behind been sexually molested pre or post-mortem, in any way. Red John was a frustrating contradiction.

Their greatest concern was that Red John was obsessed by Jane. Something occurred to Cho. “Red John has murdered one other television celebrity other than Jane.”

Rigsby nodded and Van Pelt answered. “James Panzer.”

Cho said. “Red John didn’t even hesitate. He butchered the guy within a day of the broadcast.”

Van Pelt wasn’t sure where Cho was going. “You think that has something to do with it?”

Cho played with his bottom lip. “Not exactly. Did Panzer have any family, friends? Anyone he was close to?”

Van Pelt turned to her computer. “Just a sec’.” She pulled up the recently closed Panzer file. “He had a long time buddy, Joseph McRae, they went to college together. Panzer was married less than two years and saw the ex-wife once in a while. They had two children who grew up with the wife. The daughter lives here and the son in Santa Barbara with his wife, Rachel. They have two kids.”

Cho rubbed his lip for a few seconds. Then he had to ask. “Why didn’t Red John kill Panzer’s family?”

Rigsby stood up straighter and Van Pelt frowned, thinking about it. “Maybe because Panzer himself was a killer, or trying to become famous by writing about the so-called SJK – himself. Maybe Red John doesn’t respect fakers?”

Rigsby offered. “I think mostly Red John killed him because, in so many words, Panzer called Red John a loser on television.”

Cho agreed. “But so did Jane.”

Van Pelt caught his train of thought. “But Red John didn’t kill Jane, he killed his family.”

Rigsby caught the point, too. “So you’re asking why didn’t Red John kill Panzer’s family instead of Panzer? It would’ve be a more poignant revenge, right? More bloody.”

Cho shared his reasoning with them. “Because Red John wasn’t obsessed with Panzer, in fact I doubt Red John gave a shit about Panzer, but he does give a shit about Jane.” Cho took it further. “Look, we know Jane is obsessed with finding and killing Red John, but maybe Red John is equally obsessed with Jane – maybe more? And I don’t mean just as an opponent.”

Rigsby considered the idea. “Red John could have killed Jane half a dozen times over but he hasn’t. He’s keeping Jane around to torment, that much is evident.”

 

“What are you trying to say Cho?” Van Pelt asked.

“I’m saying maybe there’s more to Red John’s obsession that what’s in those files. Maybe Red John knew Jane from before? Maybe that night when Jane went on television, Red John recognised him?”

“You mean when he was a psychic con-man?” Van Pelt asked. “We have the list of clients- “

“No, I mean before that even. Maybe Red John knew Jane from as far back as his teen years or maybe even his childhood.”

It was totally new direction. “What made you think of this?” Rigsby asked.

Cho wondered if Jane himself had considered this possibility. “Not sure, but I’ve been reading through the Red John files and it struck me that Red John has never gone on the torment trail with other investigators - or even a serial killer groupie like Panzer - only Jane.” Only his colleague, friend and one-time lover. “Maybe this is payback for something from a long time ago?”

Van Pelt wished Lisbon was there. She knew more about Jane’s history than any of them. “Do you think Jane’s ever thought of this? He’s not exactly open about his back ground, I mean the only one here he’s even close to being tight with is Lisbon.”

Cho shrugged, keeping his eyes on Rigsby. “I dunno’. It’s just a theory but Jane’s never seen Red John’s face so if he did, would he recognize him? Maybe Jane does know Red John, only he doesn’t know he knows – you know?”

Cho had just done an unintentional Jane-imitation. The man rubbed off on you.

C—B—I

Part 5 soon.


End file.
